Not Necessarily Romantic
by Seaouryou
Summary: Wendy’s wanted to be the head of the school newspaper for years. She just never thought she’d have to deal with anonymous love letters, an increasingly distant boyfriend, and Cartman. [het and slash]
1. Love, Anonymous

So. This is a Cartman/Wendy fic, because they are _awesome_ and I wish more people wrote for the pairing. There will, however, be a Kyle/Stan subplot. (I mean, "Smug Alert!"? _So effing gay._)

This story also heavily features minor characters.

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Wendy Testaburger had wanted to be the editor of the school newspaper for nearly six years. She'd wanted to every since she saw the first newspaper published in her middle school. That prestige, that _authority_ of having her named stamped under the title had called to her.

Unfortunately, she'd already committed herself to volleyball, the debate team, and sign language, and her parents had flat-out refused to let her take on a fourth extracurricular activity. She'd been initially furious, but had eventually relented and decided she would just wait until high school.

When she entered high school, however, she'd never considered the fact that the upperclassmen would have seniority. But they _did_, and the junior Scott Tenorman was the editor without contest. Scott was a nice guy, despite having an exaggerated startle response and being a tad paranoid. He was nice to everyone, even the underclassmen, almost as if he were afraid of the consequences if he wasn't. Still, despite the fact he tried to placate her by appointing her the fact checker, Wendy found she just _couldn't_ like someone who had the position she so coveted.

But this year Scott had graduated, and _she_ was a junior, and there was nothing standing between her and being the editor of the school newspaper.

"Hello, hello!" their teacher trilled, sweeping into the classroom a second before the bell rang. "Hello and welcome to _journalism!_ The press is one of our nation's greatest, most vital resources, and I'm so thrilled that you've decided to immerse yourself in it!"

Wendy rolled her eyes good-naturedly and grinned, slumping forward in her seat and propping her chin up in her hand. This was the third time she'd heard this speech. Ms. Dieterle was a hippie, hemp clothing and long hair and all, and she always encouraged her students to report on how evil the government was.

"Now I know some of you only signed up for this class because you thought it would be an 'easy A.' Well, I assure you, that is not the case! There will be a job for each of you!" A few freshmen in the back corner groaned. Ms. Dieterle ignored them.

"Our class will be publishing the bimonthly school newspaper. It is our responsibility - nay, our _privilege_ to supply the student body with their school and local news! The entirety of the work will be done by _you_, our journalism team! I will be an objector only, merely approving the paper every two weeks before you send it to the photocopier. It will be written, put together, and edited by you, the class! Now, before I can hand the reigns over, we'll have to pick the editor to replace Scott. Do we have any volunteer-"

Wendy shoot up straight in her chair and thrust her hand into the air. She looked around the room, daring anyone else to try and take the position from her.

"Wonderful!" Ms. Dieterle cried, clapping her hands. Wendy beamed. She'd worked hard for the position of teacher's pet. "Well then, Wendy will be our new editor-"

"Hold on!"

Wendy twisted around in her seat, feeling ready to wring the neck of the person who'd objected. It was the only senior in the room, who'd been daydreaming during Ms. Dieterle's speech, but had snapped to attention when Wendy's name was mentioned.

Ms. Dieterle blinked, and Wendy scowled. "Yes, Cassidy?"

Cassidy was the sort of person that would have made a very attractive boy, but had ended up a very unattractive girl. She'd had an embarrassingly obvious crush on Scott, and had harassed every girl he'd been friendly towards - which was every girl in the class. It would be safe to say Cassidy loathed Wendy.

"You're going to let little Miss Britannica be the editor of the paper?" she said incredulously.

"And what's wrong with that?" Ms. Dieterle asked gently.

"She can't even get her facts straight!"

"Now, Cassidy, Wendy's always been a reliable fact checker."

Cassidy snorted. "She had everyone thinking Andrew was riding Lexus last year, instead of his new car!"

Now that wasn't fair, Wendy thought, glaring at her. She really _had_ thought Andrew's stupid new car was a lexus. And considering how often Lexus got around, it probably _was_ true, anyway. And it had been a stupid article to begin with.

"You're one to talk," Wendy snarled. "You print nothing but gossip."

Cassidy looked outraged. "I bring people together!"

"Girls, girls!" Ms. Dieterle cried dramatically. "I can feel your negative energy all the way up here at the front of the room!"

Wendy and Cassidy grumbled.

"Is there anyone else that wants to be the editor?" Cassidy looked around the room a little desperately. No one answered. "I'm afraid, Cassidy, that you have been overruled."

Cassidy slumped down in her seat, glaring at Wendy. Wendy gave a wide, triumphant smirk and turned back around in her seat. "_Yes_," she cheered under her breath. At last, at _long last_ she was the editor. There was absolutely nothing in the world that could ruin this moment for her.

The door to the classroom burst open, making everyone sit up and take notice as a boy stumbled in. He'd obviously been hurrying to get there, and was a little winded. He gripped the edge of the Ms. Dieterle's desk and took a few deep breaths.

"Oh God no. No, _please_," Wendy whimpered under her breath, and hoped for a moment that she'd mistaken him for someone else. But there really was no one in South Park that could be mistaken for Eric Cartman. Wendy was torn between two very pressing concerns: why would he even _want_ to take journalism, and why did God hate her so much? Journalism class was her retreat. The balm for her soul. What sort of God let Cartman invade her sanctuary?

Cartman's breathing finally returned to normal, and then he glanced over at Ms. Dieterle. His face twisted up and he said, clearly enough for Wendy, who was sitting in the front row, to hear, "Oh, _God_, a hippie." He leapt off her desk as if he feared it might infect him.

Ms. Dieterle frowned at him. "And you are...?"

"Eric Cartman," he grumbled. "I've got this class."

Ms. Dieterle continued to frown as she flipped open her roster and ran her finger down the list of names. "I don't have you on here."

"I just got transferred," he said, and Wendy noticed for the first time that he was carrying a slip of paper, which he waved in Ms. Dieterle's face. She took it from him, smoothed it out, and read it.

"You're transferring out of shop class?" she asked, looking over the paper at him.

He scowled at her. "That's what it says, doesn't it? Fucking moron," he added under his breath. Wendy's hands tightened into fists.

"On the first _day?_" Mr. Dieterle pressed.

"Um, yeah," Cartman said, and switched tactics. "Because, you see... journalism... it just _calls_ to me..."

All of Ms. Dieterle's doubt vanished at once when he said that. "Oh, wonderful, wonderful! Hurry, take a seat. I'm afraid you've missed my introduction speech-"

"And it just _tears me up inside_," he said snidely. Ms. Dieterle seemed to miss his sarcastic tone of voice.

"We've just assigned Wendy as our editor, and I'm sure she'll find a place for you," she went on brightly. At the mention of her name, Wendy sat up a little straighter; Cartman looked around and finally seemed to notice her.

"Oh, _wonderful_," he said, mimicking Ms. Dieterle, the distaste evident on his face. He was ushered toward a seat, and when he'd finally sat down, Ms. Dieterle smiled brightly at Wendy.

"They're all yours, dear."

This moment was supposed to fill her with _relish_. But between Cassidy challenging her position and the prospect of working all year with Cartman, Wendy could only manage a wane smile. She gathered the rest of the class around herself (the freshmen groaned and scraped themselves out of their desks), cleared her throat, and began.

"All right, let's start with assigning positions. Brandon-"

"Let's get one thing straight," Cassidy interrupted, encroaching on Wendy's personal space. "The shout-outs are _mine_."

The Shout-out Section, as it was so named, had been under Cassidy's control since before Wendy had been a freshman. People submitted small notes to their friends, whoever they were dating, or whoever they wanted to be dating. It was, in Wendy's opinion, an utter waste of space. The only people who used it were freshmen who hadn't realized how incredibly lame it was yet.

"If you want to be in charge of that stupid section, be my guest," she said. Cassidy's nostrils flared.

"Whatever, Brittany," Cassidy said flippantly, turning away. "You won't do half the job Scott did as editor, anyway."

Maybe it was because she'd insulted Wendy's competence as an editor, maybe it was simply because she'd used the pet name she'd made up for Wendy when she'd been appointed fact checker and taken to digging through the Encyclopedia Britannica, but Cassidy's comment made her seethe. She twisted around, her teeth and fists clenched, ready to follow her and chew her out, but Cartman got in her way.

"Is that your sex face?"

Wendy gaped at him. Then she said, "_What?_"

"Being editor is a wet dream of yours, right?"

"_Ugh!_" she said, groaning and burying her face in her hands. "I can not believe I'm going to have to put up with you all year."

"Hey, I'm the one who should be complaining. It's not like I _want_ to take orders from a couple of hippies."

"I'm an environmentalist, not a hippie, Cartman!"

Cartman snorted. "Whatever. An environmentalist is just a hippie with less weed and more rage."

"_Ugh!_" she said again, because it was pretty much the only thing she could think of to say to Cartman. "Why'd you even transfer into the class if you hate it so much?"

"None of your business, ho," he said. She sucked in a breath and glared at him.

"God, I _detest_ you."

"Then give me my assignment, bitch."

"You can be the pencil sharpener," she snarled.

"Fuck that shit!"

"Brandon," she said, turning her back on Cartman, "I want you to-"

"Ey, I was still talking to you!" Cartman snapped, tugging on her elbow. Wendy wrenched it out of his grip and scowled at him.

"Well, _I'm_ done _listening_ to you!"

"Look, Wendy..." he said in what he clearly thought was a persuasive tone. "Let me write an article on something."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because I have a deep, boundless love for journalism. Why do you think?"

Wendy sighed. Cartman always managed to get his way, either by extortion, trickery, getting pissed off and going home, or simply tiring his opponent out. "Fine. Report on the football team."

"They haven't even started playing yet."

Wendy threw up her hands in exasperation. "Then report on the condition of the players! Do you want to write an article or not?"

"Fine. _Thank you_," he said, injecting as much sarcasm into his voice as possible. Wendy glared at him as he waddled off.

She'd, clearly, committed some sort of horrendous sin in a past life.

--

Wendy went back into the class after school, her backpack stuffed with back-to-school reminders, classroom rules, and various forms for her parents to sign. Ms. Dieterle was waiting for her, typing up something on her computer. When Wendy entered she looked up, smiled brilliantly, and stood.

"Wendy, there you are! Just a moment, dear, I'll get all the necessary papers for you."

She swept over to a tall file cabinet, pulled out a drawer, and began leafing through it. Wendy clutched her brand-new, just-issued books to her chest and inhaled that new-book scent, smiling a little. She'd finally managed to get over the funk Cartman and Cassidy had put her in that morning and was excited about the newspaper all over again. Cassidy was a bitch, but she'd gotten her section so she'd stay out of her hair from now on. As for Cartman... well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He'd probably just drop out soon, anyway.

Wendy looked around the room, feeling exhilarated. She was finally the editor. This was _her_ time. And she wasn't going to let a couple of assholes ruin it.

"Wendy?" Ms. Dieterle said, and she snapped to attention. Ms. Dieterle had unearthed the papers she had been looking for and held them out toward her, smiling benignly.

Wendy took them from her and laid them on the books she was carrying, flipping through them with polite curiosity. She already knew what they said by heart, however, because she'd taken (some might say "stolen") them from Scott and read them thoroughly in both her freshman and sophomore years. It merely went over all the positions that needed to be filled, how they had to make sure they had an unbiased view and presented all sides of a conflict, cited sources, respect an interviewee's right - should they invoke it - to remain anonymous, and so on.

"I can't tell you how glad I am you're going to be picking up where Scott left off," Ms. Dieterle gushed and Wendy looked up, grinning at her praise. "I just know you'll do a great job, Wendy - you're reliable and more than willing to put in the extra time after school to make sure we get the public its paper-"

The phone rang. Ms. Dieterle frowned at it, and flashed Wendy a quick, apologetic smile.

"Excuse me, dear."

She picked it up on the third ring and answered with a brisk, professional "Hello." She listened for several moments, her lips pursed, and then she nodded (though, of course, the person on the other end couldn't see that) and said goodbye.

"I'm afraid I have to run to the office, dear," she said. "Some problem with Eric's schedule needs to be ironed out. You let me know tomorrow if you have any questions, all right?"

Wendy nodded and then Ms. Dieterle flew out the door without further preamble. She rested her backpack on a desk and, with an effort, managed to shove all her things into it without splitting it. She made a quick mental note to ask for a larger backpack for her next birthday as she slipped it back on her shoulders and decided to walk around the room once before leaving. She started at a leisurely stroll.

The class was more or less split in half. The front half looked like every other classroom in the school, complete with uncomfortable wooden desks arranged in rows, facing the teacher's desk. The back half, however, had a few old-fashioned desks, complete with drawers, in-and-out baskets, and table top desks. A few cheap, low tables had been shoved up against the wall, and several computers were mounted on top of them, standard-issue plastic student chairs set out in front of them. It was on these desks and computers they would be organizing and eventually putting together their articles into the newspaper.

Once everything was edited, typed, and formatted, all under the supervision of the editor, the teacher checked over it quickly to make sure it was up to the school's standards of decency. Then, with a simple click of the mouse it was sent to the printer, then the copier, then folded by the journalism class and delivered to each classroom for students to pick up.

There wasn't much to look at. Cassidy and Cartman had managed to suck up most of the class's time, and so all they'd been able to get sorted out were positions. Brandon had started a rough outline for the front page, however, and she glanced over it as she passed the computer he'd been fooling around on.

Just _standing_ there gave her a sense of authority. Wendy smiled and soaked in it for a moment, and then she caught sight of the clock and realized she had to hurry if she wanted to catch the bus home. She'd been starting for the door when she noticed a hastily torn out piece of binder paper laying in Cassidy's In Box. She frowned - school had only been in session for one day, they hadn't announced over the intercom where students could submit their shout-outs to, so who could have turned it in? - and made her way over, picking it up.

Wendy read the hastily scrawled message, and then her breath caught and she felt her fingertips tingle. She reread it several times, but the letters did not rearrange themselves:

_Wendy_

_You're beautiful when you're angry._

_Love, anonymous_

--

TBC


	2. Murderous Appliances

The majority of this chapter is a flashback. I didn't want to label it as such because I think that looks sort of ugly in a story, but I wanted to avoid any confusion, so I decided to just mention it in the author notes. Also, I've finished plotting the story and I'm afraid it isn't going to be as funny as my previous South Park works. I'll still strive for humor instead of angst, though.

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"Cartman!"

Wendy's voice was shrill and furious as she marched to Cartman's desk. She stood over him and glowered, her hands on her hips. He glanced up at her. "What do you want now, ho?"

Wendy sucked in an outraged breath and slammed a piece of paper down on his desk with as much force as one _could_ slam a piece of paper. "_What_," she shrieked, "is _THIS?_"

"My article," he said innocently, in a tone that suggested she was an idiot for asking.

"This isn't at _all_ what I told you to do!" she went on, gesturing toward the paper with short, angry jabs. "I told you to report on the football players!"

"Stan _does_ play football," Cartman protested.

"This isn't what I meant and you know it!" she cried, griping the edge of his desk and leaning down to scowl at him. He scowled back. "Did you really think I'd let you publish this... this... _libel?_"

"It's all true!" Cartman snapped.

"It is _not!_" Wendy felt like beating her head against a wall. It had to be easier than this. She groaned a little. School hadn't even been in session for a _week_, and already Cartman was driving her to self-inflicted brain damage. "You're just doing this to piss him and Kyle off!"

"And sell papers!" Cartman said, which was (she guessed) apparently supposed to convince her. "Who wants to read some boring-ass article about football practice? The public wants _scandal_."

"Our papers are _free_," she wailed, and resisted the urge to rip her hair out in bloody chunks. Or his. She pushed herself off his desk and clenched her hands at her sides, fighting the impulse to punch him. "We're _not _publishing that, Cartman! Write the article I told you to!" she shouted, then stomped off.

Cartman scowled at her departing back, then he picked up the paper and scanned it. He'd spent so much time writing the thing, too. He glanced at Wendy, who was talking with Brandon, and gave her a particularly venomous glare.

The God damn hippie-bitch, she was screwing everything up. He'd given up the easy A that was shop class and joined the gay school paper for this. It was just his luck he'd gotten the biggest ho in existence as the editor. Anyone else he would have been able to talk, bribe, or extort into printing the article. But Wendy never fell for this stuff. She was the only one in the whole_ town_ that didn't; he even managed to trick Kyle some of the time. He glared down at the paper in his hands, trying to think of a way to get it published. To his frustration, none immediately sprang to mind.

Damn. Damn it all to hell. How was he supposed to get his revenge on Stan and Kyle _now?_

--

South Park was not a town that invited much change, and Cartman, Kenny, Kyle, and Stan all abided by certain norms. Even after seven years Cartman was still fat, Kenny was still poor, Kyle was still a Jew, and Stan was still as normal as someone could get away with being in South Park.

Stan had braces, however, because he'd gotten screwed by his genetics. It had taken several hours to get them, because at first the orthodontist had put in pink ones by mistake and Stan had been utterly horrified and refused to leave the office until he got something more masculine. Kyle had laughed when he'd heard the story and slapped him on the back and told him he was lucky he wasn't getting headgear. Because, really, then he'd be too much of an embarrassment to hang out with, and they all knew how much he would _pine_ for him.

Kyle had glasses, because he'd ignored his mother's warnings about staying up late watching TV in the dark and had strained his eyes. Kyle had at first been mortified, and tried to destroy or lose them, but they kept mysteriously returning to his room, unharmed. He'd eventually decided that if he had to wear glasses at least they were possessed glasses, which was actually pretty cool, and he actually looked rather _debonair_ in them. Or at least, that's what his girlfriend said. Cartman said any girl that would willingly touch Kyle obviously had unsound judgment and ought to be shunned by normal society.

Then Kyle punched Cartman, though Cartman wouldn't tell his mom who did it because he didn't want to admit someone in glasses had managed to break his nose.

Kenny had lost his parka in fifth grade. A plane carrying the National Firefighters' Convention had crashed into his house and burned it to the ground. Kenny had described the incident as life giving you the finger.

He'd worn his brother's hand-me-downs until seventh grade, when he'd uncovered a shirt with '87' stamped on it at some flea market. Kenny had laughed himself sick when he'd found it and had sported in proudly ever since. Stan hadn't gotten it until Kyle had pulled him off to the side and told him it was a colloquial way of referring to a rimjob while Kenny laughed himself to death.

At first, when he'd walked around without his parka, no one in South Park had believed it was him. This had made Kenny increasingly annoyed as time wore on and they had multiple encounters like this:

"_Hello boys," a passerby would say. "Kyle, Eric, Stan... blond kid."_

"_I'm Kenny!" Kenny would snap._

"_Riiiight..." he would say, rolling his eyes skyward. "You're 'Kenny'," he'd continue, making the world's most annoying hand gesture when he said it. "Look, we've all been through this before. Kenny 'dies permanently'-" the annoying hand gesture again "-and they replace him with some blond until he shows up again."_

"_I'm not that easy to replace!"_

"_Actually, dude, you kinda are," Stan would say._

The town had only accepted it was him when a place carrying the National Pediatricians' Convention crashed into him while he was standing in the middle of the town square, scowling and asking a mob what he was supposed to do to prove he was Kenny.

Kenny described _that_ as life bitch slapping you.

It was the last day of summer vacation, and they were all plastered to Kyle's couch, sweating because Kyle's mother wouldn't let them turn on the AC, half-paying attention to the TV. Stan had been working at J-mart all morning, which he'd been doing all summer, and now he was whining, which he'd also been doing all summer.

At that particular moment he was whining about Lola.

"She came to see me during my lunch break."

"Hm," said Kyle, who was the only one even pretending to pay attention to him.

"She broke up with me."

"Bummer." One thing Kyle had never been good at, would never be good at, was comforting people. Stan gave him a sidelong glare.

"Aren't you going to ask why?"

"It's obvious why," Kyle muttered. He slide down in his seat and made a face when his shirt rode up and the couch leather stuck to his skin. "You threw up on her. Like you do to all your girlfriends."

"You guys only went out twice," Kenny spoke up. "That's not really _dating_. You didn't even french her."

"Shut up, Kenny." Stan swallowed and noticed his throat was dry. "Hey," he said, kicking Kyle feebly in the ankle. "Go get me something to drink."

"I'm not your bitch. Get it yourself."

"But it's your house!"

"No."

"C'mon. I'd do it for you."

"Fine, then get me one too while you're at it."

"I don't want to get up," he whined. On a hot, uncomfortable day like today, everything sounded like whining. "I was on my knees all day."

Kenny lifted an eyebrow. "Something you're not telling us about your job?"

Stan scowled at him. "I was _repricing soup cans_. Christ. Go fuck yourself, Kenny."

"Don't think I haven't tried."

Stan glanced pleadingly at Kyle. "Please?"

"No."

"_Fine_," Stan grumbled, making a great show of how difficult it was to get off of the couch, and consequently how unreasonable it was to make him. Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman ignored him while he disappeared and went through the motions of getting a glass out of the cupboard. They all jumped, however, when he screamed bloody murder and ran back into the living room.

"Stan, wha-"

"Your refrigerator just tried to kill me!"

They all stared at him for a while. Then they cracked up.

"Kyle! God damn it, it isn't funny!" he snarled. "Your fridge _wants me dead._"

"Okay, Christ, don't be such a pussy," Kyle said, still shaking with mirth while he climbed off the couch. He walked into the kitchen and immediately noticed the refrigerator, and all the ice cubes that had spilled out over the floor. "Damn, dude, what did you do to the ice maker?" he called out.

"I was defending myself!" Stan shouted from the living room. Kyle shook his head a little and sweep the ice up, dumping it into the sink before it had a chance to melt.

"Ey! Get me a drink, too!"

"Fuck you, Cartman!" Kyle yelled back, but he grabbed him a glass anyway and opened the refrigerator, pushing around food until he found a bottle of soda. He poured a glass for Stan, and then went to pour one for Cartman, too, before hesitating. He set the soda back down, smirking, returned to the sink and grabbed a fistful of dirty ice, dumped it into Cartman's glass, and then filled it to the top.

He carried the glasses back out and found Cartman, Stan, and Kenny were engrossed in an infomercial for authentic japanese weapons.

"We should call and get one," Cartman was saying earnestly.

"Haven't we been through that before?" Kyle asked, rolling his eyes as he shoved his way between Stan and the armrest and handed him his drink.

"I don't hear _you_ coming up with any ideas 'bout what we should do, Jew," Cartman said snidely, grabbing his drink from him and taking a swig. "Ugh!" he said, and made a face.

"What _now,_ lardass?" Kyle said, glaring at him.

"Your bitch of a mother only buys that sugar-free, caffeine-free crap. I'd rather drink water than this shit."

"Shut up about my mother, fat tits!"

"Isn't she too old to be PMSing-?"

Cartman was cut off as Kyle dove at him, swinging. Kyle knocked over a lamp and Cartman cracked the side of head against the coffee table, and they were both splashed with Cartman's drink.

"You _fucker!_" Cartman wailed, and punched him in the stomach. "This was a new shirt!"

Kyle managed to stand, because he had the advantage of not being on his back. He groaned, clutched the side Cartman's fist had collided with, and kicked him as hard as he could. "Keep your mouth shut about my mother!"

Cartman kicked him back, in the knee, and Kyle fell backwards into Stan, who shoved his drink at Kenny quickly and caught him. Kyle glared at Cartman while he got back on his feet, and noticed for the first time what his shirt said.

"'Schadenfreude'?" he repeated blankly, then scowled. "What is that, German for 'We must exterminate the Jews'?"

"No, that would be '_Wir müssen die Juden ausrotten_,' you uncultured simpleton," Cartman said haughtily, and Kyle growled. "_Schadenfreude_ is finding joy in another person's misery."

"The perfect shirt for you, then," Kyle said darkly. He finally seemed to notice he hadn't moved since Cartman had kicked him, and was half-sitting in Stan's lap, Stan holding him up. He stood up and went to stand the lamp back up.

"We still don't have anything to do," Kenny complained. "Come on, I don't want to piss my last day of vacation away listening to you guys fight. I can do that any time."

"Well there isn't anything _to_ do," Stan said, and then the infomercial they'd been watching ended and a regular commercial came on.

"Hey!" the TV exclaimed cheerfully. "Last day of summer vacation? No where to go? Nothing to do? Then come on down to the free carnival, one day only, in Fairplay!"

Then it switched over to an ad for the latest weight loss program, which was paying someone twenty bucks to follow you around and smack the food out of your hands.

"... That was freakishly specific," Kenny said.

"Yeah, the timing of that was a little _too_ perfect. It's rather off-putting," Kyle said.

"Who _cares_, it's a free carnival!" Cartman said, who always focused on the things that really mattered. "Come on, let's go!" he shouted and left the house so quickly he didn't close the door after him.

Kyle, Kenny, and Stan remained where they were sitting, looking after him. There was a pause, and then Cartman reappeared in the doorway, scowling at them.

"Assholes, _come on_."

The other three sighed and got off the couch, turning off the TV and stretching. Kyle picked up the keys to his dad's car on his way out, and Stan closed the door behind him. Kyle hopped into the front seat and Stan and Kenny engaged in a brief scuffle of who got shotgun (Stan, having the advantage of not being scrawny and underfed, won), but Cartman remained in the yard.

"... You're driving?"

"It's my dad's car. Of course I'm driving," Kyle said.

"No."

"Cartman, God damn it!"

"No way am I getting in a car with a Jew behind the wheel. Jews are horrible drivers."

"We are not!"

"Cartman, just get in the fucking car." Kenny said.

"Hey, if _you_ want to go flying through the windshield and get run over, that's your business. I'd rather walk."

"Do you want to go to the carnival or not?" Stan challenged. Cartman's rage was such that it could only be expressed in choked out syllables. He finally snarled and climbed in, making a get show of buckling his seat belt. Kyle glared at him in the rearview mirror.

Ten minutes later Cartman was saying, "Told you so."

"I swear the tree jumped out of no where!"

They all scrambled out of the car and surveyed the damage. The car had plowed into a tree, consequently putting a huge dent in the hood and cracking the windshield. Kyle groaned and buried his face in his hands. "My parents are going to kill me."

"So you tried to take us down with you!" Cartman cried. "I knew that was your plan all along!"

"You boys need any help?" drawled a southern voice, and they turned around to see none other but Officer Barbrady.

"Yes!" Cartman said immediately. "We need you to drive us to Fairplay."

Barbrady got out of his car, walking around it, stared at the smashed car for a few minutes, then scratched his head. "Did someone have an accident?"

"All right, we gave you a chance," Cartman swore. "Kenny! Hot-wire his car!"

Everyone ignored him. "Is everyone all right?" Barbrady questioned.

"Kenny probably isn't," Kyle mused.

"Actually," Kenny spoke up, "I'm fine."

Kyle blinked and turned to look at him. "Really?"

Kenny spread his arms out and shrugged. "Perfectly fine."

"Huh," Kyle said. "Weird."

"We're all _fine!_" Cartman wailed. "Can we go now?"

"Actually," Stan said, rubbing the back of his neck, "my neck kind of hurts."

"Whiplash!" Barbrady cried with a dramatic uplifting of the arm. Stan's eyes widened in alarm.

"You think?"

"Definitely," Barbrady said, nodding authoritatively. "You'd better all get to the hospital."

"Sure," Cartman said. "We'll get right on that. You can leave now."

"I'll call an ambulance."

"God dammit!" Cartman shouted.

Barbrady leaned into his car through the driver side window, using his intercom to call. Cartman seethed while Stan questioned Barbrady about just how deadly whiplash was, Kyle stared at his dad's car and groaned, and Kenny prodded himself, apparently amazed all his parts were still in the right order.

"Just how long is this going to take?" he demanded, glaring at Barbrady.

"Oh... an hour for each of you, an extra two for the waiting room?" Barbrady estimated.

Cartman stood back and closed his eyes in a grimace. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked down the road at the ambulance that was fast approaching. He dropped his hand, took a deep breath, and turned to face Kyle and Stan.

"... you _GOD DAMN FAGS!_" he exploded. "I'm going to miss a free carnival because you two assholes are determined to ruin my last day of summer vacation! Oh, I am going to _get you_ for this, you sons of bitches! I'll hang your nut sacks from the rearview mirror for this! Just you wait and see!"

--

TBC


	3. Libel

Is it pathetic that just having Cartman _talk_ to Wendy in the new episode made me gleeful?

Hm. Yes. I do believe that is rather pathetic.

This chapter is longer because it was originally going to be _two_ chapters, but they were both too short so I just kind of meshed them together. Incidentally, this chapter contains my favorite scene in possibly the entire story. See if you can tell which.

--

--

--

"Here," Cartman grunted, dumping a report on Wendy's desk. She blinked at it then looked up at him.

"What's this?"

"My report on the faggy football team," Cartman said, scowling at her as he crossed her arms. Wendy's eyebrows rose.

"You actually did it?" she asked, pulling it toward herself and flipping through it. "Wow. You actually _did_."

"You don't have to sound so surprised, bitch," Cartman said, narrowing his eyes.

Wendy caught her bottom lip between her teeth and looked up at him. "... You're right," she said. "Sorry."

Cartman blinked at her, and then he dropped his arms and stared. "You're _apologizing?_"

She frowned at him. "Well, you were right. I was being rude."

Cartman continued to stare. He looked like he wasn't quite sure how to handle such a situation. Then he snorted and said, "Way to roll over. I thought you had more spine than that."

Wendy clenched her teeth and tightened her grip on his report until his knuckles turned white. "_God_," she seethed, "you are just so _impossible_. Anytime anyone acts halfway decent towards you, you just..." she got up and stomped over to the kids who were hunched over the computers, typing things up, and deposited Cartman's paper.

"... Bitch," Cartman muttered to no one in particular.

Wendy was leaning over Brandon's shoulder, pointed to the computer screen and offering suggestions, when she felt someone wrap their arms around her midsection and pull her backwards into a hug. She yelped and twisted around, and her righteous outrage faded when she saw who it was.

"Token!" she said brightly, and leaned in to kiss him. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," he said, grinning and tugging her closer. Wendy squirmed out of his reach.

"I'm busy right now."

He pouted. "Too busy for me?"

She smiled a little. "We'll be done soon."

"How long have you been here already?" Token asked, glancing around the room. "I mean, Christ, practice's already over."

"We have a lot of work to do," she said. "The paper's going out this week." Her eyes narrowed a little. "I told everyone to come. A bunch of people ditched."

"Maybe they were just busy," Token suggested.

Wendy snorted. "Or maybe they just ditched."

"Wendy!" Brandon suddenly called, sounding panicky, "the computer froze!"

"_What?_" she wailed, twisting around. "Okay, nobody touch anything! We probably just need to jiggle some wire..."

"Wendy-"

"Just sit down, Token!" she said, jabbing a finger at the desks. "I have to take care of this!"

He frowned but wandered toward the front while Wendy pulled the chairs out of the way and got down on her hands and knees under the table, checking the different plugs. Token picked up a rubber band off the teacher's desk and started playing with it to give his hands something to do, then sat on top of Wendy's desk and glanced back over at the outside of the room. From this position, he had a rather nice view of Wendy's ass. He grinned and enjoyed it until she got back up and, with a triumphant shout, rolled the mouse around and saw it move on the screen.

He took a glance around the room then, bored, and did a double take when he spotted Eric Cartman. He didn't know the guy very well - and he thanked God for that - but everyone in town knew him enough to know he avoided things like this, unless it was part of an elaborate scheme. Token couldn't help but wonder what the hell Cartman thought getting onto the school newspaper would accomplish.

Wendy was leaning over Brandon again, chatting about layout and blank space. Token stretched the rubber band out between his thumb and forefinger a few times, then shot it at her back. It hit her right between the shoulder blades and she jumped, then turned around and gave him an annoyed look. "_Token._"

"How much longer is this going to take?"

"I told you!" she huffed. "The paper's going out this week."

"So? How much work does a fact-checker have to do, anyway?"

"I'm not the fact-checker anymore!" she cried indignantly. "I told you, I'm the editor now!"

"You didn't tell me," Token defended himself.

"Yes I did! You just weren't paying attention," she huffed.

"Fine," Token relented. "Well, how different is a fact-checker from an editor?"

"They're plenty different!"

Token rolled his eyes. "I didn't say that they _weren't_, I asked how they _were_."

"Don't roll your eyes at me!" she placed her hands on her hips. "The editor has to oversee _everything_, Token."

"Is _that_ why you've been missing all my practices?"

Wendy frowned at him. "You haven't even started playing yet."

"Everyone else on the team has their girlfriend there - except Stan, you know, because of his inability to keep one." He paused. "But even he has Kyle hang around."

Wendy said nothing. Token continued.

"I always went to all your volleyball practices."

"That's because you liked watching me prance around in my little uniform," she said, dismissing his comment.

"Don't you like watching me prance around in _my_ little uniform?" he asked, grinning shamelessly at her.

_That_ managed to worm a giggle out of her. She smiled in spite of herself and said, "Well, yes."

"Then come see me. If no one ever sees the girl I keep bragging about, they're going to start thinking I'm hallucinating."

"I wouldn't want them to think you're sick in the head," she said, smirking a little. She glanced back at the computers. "But I'm busy."

Token groaned and swung his feet off the chair they'd been resting on, hopping off the desk. "Well, is there anything I can do?"

"No."

He sighed, exasperated, and checked his watch. "I've got to go home. I can't wait around to give you a ride."

"I'll take the bus," she said shortly.

Token looked up at her, dropping his hand. "Look... you'll come to our first game at least, right?"

"Sure," she said distractedly. "When is it?"

"Thursday. All right?"

"All right." She stopped what she was doing long enough to look up and smile briefly. "Don't worry. I'll be there."

Token kissed her, grabbed his bag, and was out the door without another word. Wendy smiled vaguely after her, but frowned when she noticed Cartman was looking at her.

"_What?_"

"Token's an asshole," he said blandly. She blinked, thrown by this apparent non sequitur, and then he continued. "Stan's an asshole, too. Is that your type, or something?"

Wendy scowled at him, crossing her arms. "It's none of your business who I date, Cartman!" she said shrilly.

"Wendy," Brandon said meekly. "The computer... it sort of... froze again."

She whirled around and kicked one of the table legs. "Quit trying to screw me, you God damn machine, before I punch a hole through your leg and rip out your appendix!"

Brandon's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Hey, what do ya know? That worked!"

--

Come Thursday, Wendy was scrambling to get the finish touches put on the paper.

It was pushing five, and she kept alternating between casting anxious looks at the clock and pushing keys furiously, trying to get the computer to work with her, not against her. The few people who'd shown up after school had long ago snuck out of the room, and she was the only person left to send the paper to the printer, make two thousand copies, fold them all, and deliver them to the classrooms.

... Well, that wasn't quite true. Cartman was still there, sitting off in a corner casually. She had no idea what he was doing, but it sure as hell wasn't _helping._

_Why oh why_, she thought, biting her lip as she rearranged page nine to fit in a movie review, _did I promise Token I'd make it to his game?_

She'd - and it was so _unlike_ her - completely spaced that the paper was going out on Friday, and so of course she'd be busy Thursday evening. Wendy frowned at the computer screen. Token would be mad if she didn't show up - understandably, she'd promised she would, after all. Wendy didn't _like_ arguing with her boyfriend. But, frankly, the paper was infinitely more important to her than some small town football game. She wondered why small towns always seemed to think high school football was the Greatest Thing Ever, anyway. South Park never even won anything.

Her concentration was broken when Cartman started to hum. She ground her teeth and rested her forehead against the computer monitor a moment before twisting around and glaring at him.

"Would you knock that off!"

He did - long enough to insult her. "What crawled up and bit the inside of _your_ ass?"

She growled. "If you haven't noticed, I'm _working_ here while you - what are you doing, anyway?"

"Sharpening pencils."

Wendy stared at the pile of neatly sharpened pencils he was making on his desk and the handheld pencil sharpener he was calming twisting around a pencil. He had, clearly, finally lost that fragile grip he had on sanity.

"Cartman," she finally said, "this is the 21st century. Everyone uses mechanical pencils."

He chose to ignore her and instead said, "Trouble in paradise?"

"What?" she said, unnerved, thinking he meant her and Token.

"The newspaper's giving you migraines? I thought you got off working on it. Why don't you just tell it, 'Sorry, not tonight honey, I have a headache'?"

Wendy groaned and rested her forehead against her fist. Then she looked up and scowled at him.

"_For your information_, I promised Token I'd go to his game tonight. But I can't leave the paper unfinished, so now I'm going to miss it and he's going to be pissed at me."

"So why don't you just go?" Cartman asked. She gaped at him.

"I can't leave the paper unfinished!"

"I'll do it."

That simple sentence floored her. Her first instinct was to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but... he _could_ do it, couldn't he? After all, how could he screw up folding a newspaper? She hesitated, looking across the room at him. He arched an eyebrow, staring back expectantly. And, she thought, biting the corner of her lip, he _had_ turned in the article she'd asked him to.

"... Okay," she finally said, and he grinned, put down his pencil sharpener, and got up to stand over her shoulder. She pointed at the screen.

"Ms. Dieterle already okayed it this afternoon," she said, "and I've put all the finishing touches on it. So all you have to do is send it to the printer, fold it up, and deliver in to all the classrooms..." she trailed off and dropped her hand. "Are... are you going to be okay by yourself?"

"Of course," he said, snorting. "Who do you think you're talking to?"

Wendy smiled at him. "I... thanks, Cartman."

"Whatever, ho."

She laughed a little, grabbed her things, and left for the football field, feeling elated. Who knew something she'd been agonizing over - having Cartman in her class - would actually turn out all right? She grinned as she hurried down the hall. Maybe they'd actually be able to get along this year.

Cartman waited until he heard Wendy's footsteps die away, and then he got up and locked the door. He was particularly worried about someone coming in, considering there was a football game and no one really cared about the faggy newspaper, but he didn't want to be interrupted.

He dug through his backpack, flipping through the loose papers - he'd never been one for organized binders - until he found the somewhat bent paper he'd been carrying around with himself ever since Wendy threw it back in his face. Cartman pulled out the paper and grinned at it, amazed at how perfectly everything had worked out for him. He hadn't even had to _do_ anything to make it work, just sit there and bide his time by sharpening pencils. God clearly loved him.

Cartman sat down and pulled up the front page of the newspaper, deleting everything on it save the date. He pulled his article toward himself, cracked his knuckles and started typing, glanced between his paper and the monitor. He had a little trouble importing the picture but figured it out easily enough, and then he sat back with a triumphant grin and sent it to the printer.

Now he had to fold two thousand newspapers and deliver them to every classroom before the football game was let out and the school was locked up for the night. But he could do it. He knew he could do it. If it meant getting back at that Jew rat, he could do anything.

--

At first Kyle was calm.

"Cartman made it up," he said, patiently and rationally, whenever a curious student approached him with the school newspaper.

By lunch he was shrieking "GOD DAMMIT THAT RACIST FATASS MADE IT UP!" while ripping the paper out of the inquiring party's hands and stomping off down the hallway.

He was furious when he went to meet Stan, who was seated at their usual lunch table and wondering why everyone suddenly seemed interested in the school paper, and why they were glancing at him over the top of it. Kyle stormed up, threw his backpack on the ground, and pulled out the newspaper he'd torn out of a terrified-looking freshman's hands. He sat down next to Stan and fumed, clenched and unclench his hands, and made some muted, rage-filled noises.

Stan sighed and put down his sandwich. "Look, we both know Cartman only joined the paper to piss us off. I'm sure whatever he printed about you can't be _that_ ba-HOLY SHIT!"

Kyle had unrolled the paper and thrust the full-page, black-and-white photo under his best friend's nose. Stan snatched it away from him and read the accompanying headline.

"'Illicit Love Affair'? Where the fuck did Cartman get that picture from?"

"I'll bet you anything he got Timmy to Photoshop it for him."

"The _fuck._"

"At least you don't look like some fucking girl. Christ, I'm not _that_ God damn skinny!"

Stan ripped through the paper to page nine, when the article was continued in detail. He scanned it with his mouth hanging open.

"The locker rooms, the bathroom, behind the school, _the utility closet?_ How the hell did Cartman get this published?"

"I don't know," Kyle said, crumpling up the paper and chucking it at a nearby garbage can. He glared at a cluster of underclassmen who were looking at the two of them and giggling. "But I'm sure as fuck going to find out."

--

"Wendy," the principal said, his fingers laced on top of his desk and giving her a hard look, "do you understand the severity of this situation?"

Wendy was seated in front of the principal's on a hard plastic chair. She was leaning forward in her seat, gripping the front of it, her head bowed, and she was trembling. Not out of fear, or embarrassment, or because she was fighting the urge to cry. No, Wendy was trembling with pure, unadulterated rage.

"Do you think," the principal said, gesturing toward the paper Ms. Dieterle was holding, "that this is _funny?_" When she said nothing he pressed, "_Well?_"

Wendy licked her lips. How was anyone supposed to respond to a question like that? 'Why, yes, I find it rather humorous?'

"... No..."

"Mister Broflovski was down here an hour ago, formally lodging a complaint," the principal informed her. "But even if he hadn't, you would still be in that chair right now, Miss Testaburger. Our school does not tolerate stunts like _this_," he snapped, and then he took the newspaper from Ms. Dieterle and thrust it under Wendy's noise. She looked at the grainy black-and-white photo of two boys shoved up against the lockers, undoing each other's belts, and then the principal pulled it back again.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

"_I didn't_-" she began, ready to defend herself, ready to send Cartman up the river, but then she choked on her words and looked down at her feet. Because... she _couldn't_ tell them she'd left Cartman to do her job. She was responsible, she was the _editor_, and the editor couldn't dump the paper on someone else so that they could run off and watch their boyfriend lose to Fairplay's team.

Cartman had known that. Wendy clenched her hands into the fists so tightly that they started to shake. That _asshole_ had _known_ she wouldn't be able to finger him. He'd manipulated her so _easily_, and she... she hadn't even _suspected_. She'd walked right into his trap, and not only had he managed to humiliate Stan and Kyle in front of the entire school, but he'd set it up so that she had to take the fall for him.

"You didn't _what,_ Miss Testaburger?" the principal demanded, and she sucked in a breath.

"I didn't... think it was... such a big deal," she forced out, hating Cartman with every word.

"Not a big deal," the principal repeated, and made an ugly face at her. "Miss Testaburger, this is the sort of thing we expel students for."

Her eyes snapped up to his, her mouth forming a small 'o' in horror. The principal looked her straight in the eye.

"However... quite frankly, your test scores are the only thing the keeps the government from slashing our funding." Wendy looked at him hopefully, scarcely breathing. The principal glared at her. "Ms. Dieterle and myself have talked it over, and because you have been a model student throughout your freshman and sophomore years, we have decided to give you one more chance. I will warn you now, Miss Testaburger," he said, leaning forward in his seat and scowling over his desk at her, "if you put one _toe_ out of line, you will be suspended for two weeks and transferred from journalism to shop class. Do I make myself clear?"

Wendy licked her lips and nodded. "Yes... sir," she added. She glanced over at Ms. Dieterle, who was frowning a little sadly at her.

"I'm disappointed in you, Wendy."

_That_ nearly made her cry. She'd worked hard to be the teacher's pet, and she liked Ms. Dieterle. She wanted her to like her. She swallowed and looked at her feet again, and the principal said disgustedly, "We're done here." She got wearily to her feet and, without looking at either of them, left the principal's office.

School had been out for a while, now, and the halls were empty. Wendy made her way to her locker, opening it slowly and shoving her books into her backpack.

It was raining. Fitting, she thought numbly. And of course she didn't even have a hood. She adjusted her backpack, recognized that their was no way around getting wet, and left the school. She went through the back, passing the chain link fence that people chained their bikes to (it was bare, now) and the tennis ball courts. Wendy shuddered as the rain beat down on her head. She just wanted to go home and punch holes in her wall. Was that so much to ask for?

Apparently.

"Ponchos are for hippies," she heard a snide voice behind her say. Wendy whipped around to spot Cartman, who was lounging by the gate under a wide umbrella. Her face twisted into a nasty scowl when she saw him.

"Scarfs are for fatasses," she shot back, adjusting her poncho nonchalantly. At least, she thought, it wasn't some dirty thing a dog slept on. She actually thought it was rather stylish. She turned around, lifted her chin, and started the long walk home, ignoring him. Wendy was angrier than she ever had been in her life - it was a sort of anger that transcended yelling, or even beating the crap out of him. Her whole body felt like it was buzzing.

"So you're going to walk home without an umbrella?" Cartman called after her.

"I don't really have a _choice_, do I?" she snapped. "I missed my bus because I was getting chewed out by the principal because of _you_, and I didn't bring one!"

"You could always ask to share mine."

Wendy blinked, completely thrown, and looked over her shoulder. "Could I?"

Cartman smirked at her. "Beg me for it."

She snarled and spun on her heel, stomping away from him and toward her house. Cartman sped after her and fell into step next to her, standing _just_ far enough away from her so that she wasn't underneath the protective rim of his umbrella. They walked in silence for a while, him looking at her face, her looking resolutely straight ahead, and then he snorted.

"Oh, come on. Just ask me once more."

"_No,_" she bit out. She'd rather walk the mile and a half to her house in the rain and catch pneumonia and die than grovel in front of Eric Cartman.

"You're seriously going to walk all the way home in the rain?"

"_Yes_."

Cartman was quiet a moment. Then he said, "God, you're a stubborn bitch."

"_Fuck you_, Cartman!" she yelled, forgetting her silent promise to ignore him. "God, I _trusted_ you, I have no idea why but I _did_-"

"Well that was your first mistake right there."

"_Why_ are you such an asshole? This is why everybody hates you!"

"Well good, 'cause I hate everybody!"

They said no more during the entire walk home. She purposely stomped through every puddle she came across because though she was soaked to the bone Cartman was _not_, and she didn't care if it was childish - kicking water at him made her feel better.

She marched up the steps to her front door and slammed it in his face, then glared at him through the window, dripping all over her carpet, her breath fogging up the glass. As he turned and walked back the way he'd came, a bright red spot against the gray street and sky, something occurred to her.

_Doesn't he live on the other side of town?_

--

Wendy ate a warm dinner and took a hot shower, and made up an explanation when her parents questioned her as to why she'd missed the bus. She flopped down on her bed, finally, feeling exhausted, and rubbed at her hair with one of her mother's big, fluffy towels. She looked thoughtfully at the cuffs her her pajama bottoms and her hands slowly came to a stop, until the towel was simply draped over her shoulders. Wendy curled and uncurled her toes into her thick white carpet and let out a slow breath.

Her rage had slowly faded since she'd gotten home, and now it had been replaced with... guilt.

She didn't really talk to Stan much... or at all. But she saw him when she went to watch Token play, and she bore him no ill will. He was a nice guy. He was, in fact, nicer than most guys. And he really didn't deserve the crap Cartman had just dumped on him, and... Cartman wouldn't have been able to dump it on him if she'd been doing her job instead of selfishly running off to watch her boyfriend.

Wendy picked up her phone and then hesitated with her thumb over the buttons. She strained her memory, trying to remember what Stan's phone number was, but found she couldn't. So she got up, fished the school directory out of her book case, and flipped through the 'M's until she found _Marsh, Stanley_.

She sat cross-legged on her bed with the directory open in her lap and dialed; the phone rang four times before anyone picked up, and Wendy heard Stan say, "Kyle, man, can't you tell me how you're going to kill Cartman tomorrow? I told you, I'm eating dinner."

"Um," Wendy said, squeezing the receiver, "actually, Stan, it's me... Wendy."

The other line was silent for a minute. And then Stan said, "_Wendy?_" as if he hadn't heard right.

"Yeah," she said. "Er, you're eating dinner...? Is this a bad time?"

"No, no!" he said hastily. "What's up?"

Wendy looked up at her ceiling fan. She was starting to wish she'd thought this conversation out more before she'd called - or that she hadn't called at all. "I just wanted to... explain about the article." Stan was silent and she hastened to say "Cartman was the one who-"

"I know," Stan interrupted. "He spent all Spanish flicking notes at Kyle and me."

"Oh," she said, looking down at her foot. "Well, I just wanted to... you know, apologize. I would have never let him publish that, I just-"

"It's okay," Stan said. "I know how Cartman is."

She smiled a little, but felt she had to say, "Sorry."

"It's okay," Stan repeated. She heard him hesitate, and then he said, "Is that the only reason you called me?"

"Well, yeah," she admitted.

"Oh," Stan said, and she thought he sounded disappointed. "Well I gotta get back to the table if I don't want my sister to eat all the steak so..." he hesitated again, and then he said, "It was... nice to talk to you again, Wendy. I'm glad you called."

"Yeah," she agreed. Stan hung up, and she clicked her phone off and flopped back on her bed.

Wendy couldn't help but feel as though it would have been much better if she hadn't called Stan.

--

TBC


	4. Stupidity Through Osmosis

... I _know_ I'm not the only one that's hankering for some Cartman/Bart right now.

A word about Red: Matt and Trey are notorious for changing the character's names. Token, Butters, and Kyle have all had name/spelling changes, to name a few. She was referred to as Bertha in "Erection Day" and Red in "Follow That Egg." I decided to go with Red because I like it better. Also, regarding Bebe: in this story, she is a slut. But she is a slut because I adore her.

--

--

--

_Wendy_

_You're the most forgiving person I know._

_Love, anonymous_

"It's so romantic," Bebe told her with a dreamy sigh, putting down the paper.

"Yeah," Wendy said. "I just wish I knew who was writing them."

Bebe looked surprised. "It isn't Token?"

Wendy laughed. "He doesn't do things like that. Anyway, he would have signed them."

Bebe bent down and removed a notebook from her bag. She stuffed the rest of her sandwich in her mouth, wiped her hands on her pants, and flipped it open.

"What are you doing?" Wendy asked, looking over her shoulder.

"Writing down everyone it could be," she said. "We're going to figure this out."

Wendy groaned. "Bebe..."

Bebe held up a finger as she finished scribbling down some names, then crossed a T and looked up.

Two weeks had passed since Cartman had published the article, and Wendy had finally published a paper she could be proud of. Several things had changed, of course - Ms. Dieterle had watched her like a hawk, and Wendy had watched Cartman just as closely. Wendy had appointed him her personal assistant and had him running inane assignments all during class, like fetching her water. Cartman scowled at her every time she told him to do something, but because Ms. Dieterle was always standing over Wendy's shoulder, he couldn't refuse. Wendy felt like she was paying him back in small ways, and she delighted in it. If she couldn't make him pay for the article he'd published, she'd turn him into her own personal whipping boy.

"All right," Bebe said. "Brandon?"

"Brandon's a nerd, Bebe."

"Like you're one to talk," Bebe laughed and Wendy scowled at her. Bebe tapped her pencil against her notebook and said, "Nerdy guys are more likely to do the secret admirer thing."

"It's not Brandon," she said, sighing. "He's a trekkie. He likes the Seven-of-Nine type."

"Not Brandon, then," Bebe said, crossing his name out. "Clyde? He has a sort of 'I'm desperate for a girl' air about him."

Wendy frowned at her. "Clyde's, like, Token's best friend."

"Okay. Craig?"

"He likes red heads."

"Kevin?"

"Kevin's a dick."

"What about Kenny?"

Wendy snorted. "Yeah, right. Kenny wouldn't deal with letters - he'd walk up and grab my ass."

Bebe crossed off the names and frowned at her notebook, and then she looked up at Wendy. "It's Cartman," she said with sudden certainty.

"Don't be stupid, Bebe," Wendy said, rolling her eyes. "Like Cartman would ever-"

"He liked you once before, right?"

"That was _years_ ago."

"Wendy, I have never been so sure of anything in my life. Cartman's writing the letters."

She frowned at her. "... No way. It's got to be somebody else."

"There isn't anybody else."

"It's not Cartman. He's been as nasty to me as ever."

Bebe gave her a look. "Has he, Wendy? Has he?"

"Yes! He argues with me and he got me in trouble with the principal and he's an asshole!"

"He's writing them," Bebe concluded, taking a sip from her soda.

"That's ridiculous," Wendy said, and was alarmed when she didn't believe herself. She was saved from thinking further about it when someone called out her name.

"Wendy!"

She turned around in her seat to see Token coming toward her, glaring lightly, a newspaper in one hand.

"What?" she asked, frowning.

"How could you _print_ this?" he demanded, shoving an article under her nose. She blinked at him, then took the paper from him and skimmed it.

It was the article Cartman had written about the football team - the one he'd replaced with the exposé about Stan and Kyle. She frowned and looked up at him, not understanding what the problem was. "_What?_"

"Did you even _read_ it before you published it?" Token demanded, and she scowled.

"Of course I did!"

Token gestured angrily. "Practically half the article is about how I can't catch a pass and I should be cut from the team! It makes me look bad!"

"You're being paranoid," she said coolly, feeling a surge of protectiveness together the newspaper. It was her _baby_, after all, and no one was going to criticize it.

"It makes me look bad!" Token repeated, getting equally irritable. "Which you'd _know_, if you ever came to see me practice!"

"I came to your _game!_" Wendy cried, jumping to her feet and scowling heavily at him. "And I got in trouble with the principal because of it!"

"Like that's my fault?" Token demanded, scowling as well.

"Well maybe it _was_," she snarled. She was being unreasonable, she knew, but she tended to do that when she got ticked off.

"Forget it," Token snapped, taking the paper from her and storming off. Wendy plopped back down on the bench, fuming.

"Woah," Bebe finally said, biting on her pinky nail and looking between Wendy and Token's departing back. "Um..." she said, obviously wary of her best friend's temper. Then she brightened and whipped her hand away from her mouth.

"This'll cheer you up," she said, slinging an arm around her shoulders and grinning cheerfully. "Sleepover, tonight, my house."

--

Bebe was, without question, the most popular girl in school: she was the head of the cheerleading squad, she had the biggest breasts, and she always threw the best parties. She was into all of the sort of things Wendy had never really cared about, because she'd been too busy tutoring and volunteering and padding her college application.

She liked unwinding with Bebe, however, so even though gossiping and drinking excessive amounts of caffeine all evening with a roomful of girls didn't really appeal to her, she had her mother drop her off at Bebe's front door with her backpack at five-thirty. Wendy just needed a break: from wanting to beat Cartman's face in, from arguing with Token - from Stan, who suddenly seemed to be _around_ all the time, dropping by the journalism room and arguing with Cartman.

She walked in and dropped her things on the couch. Wendy and Bebe's friendship was past the 'knock before entering' stage - the door was wide open, anyway, and several girls had already arrived, helping themselves to drinks and milling about. Wendy headed toward the basement, because that was where Bebe always hung out at the beginning of a sleepover, and that was where a sleepover always ended up.

Wendy was making her way down the hall, however, when she passed the doorway to the kitchen and stopped, doing a double take. _Cassidy_ was there, giggling with Lizzy, the butchiest girl Wendy had ever known who still wore pink from head to toe. As Wendy stared Lizzy noticed her and muttered something to Cassidy; Cassidy turned around and made a face at her.

She stalked forward, ready for a fight, when she was yanked back by the elbow.

"C'mon, Wendy," Bebe pled, "don't start a catfight in the kitchen. Mom will take it as a sign that I want to start learning how to cook." She shuddered as if her mother was going to make her slaughter cows. Bebe loathed any food that didn't come ready-made from the grocery store or a takeout joint. She'd started four fires and managed to burn spaghetti before the school decided to transfer her from Home Ec. to a different class.

Wendy turned around and frowned at her. "Why is _she_ here? I hate her!"

"I know, I know," Bebe soothed. "So do I."

"Then why is she _here?_"

"I had to invite her," Bebe said, shaking her head. "She's on the cheerleading team, and she's a senior. Leaving her out would have been social suicide."

Wendy grumbled and crossed her arms. Bebe smiled and gave her shoulder a tug.

"Come on, you'll hardly even notice she's here. Everyone's arrived now and they're going down to the basement, so help me carry some snacks down."

She dragged Wendy into the kitchen, stopping to give Cassidy and Lizzy a look. "_Excuse_ me." Bebe gestured behind them. "You're blocking the refrigerator."

Cassidy and Lizzy left, throwing nasty looks over their shoulders as they went. Wendy stood by and waited while Bebe dug through the refrigerator and cabinets, dumping food into her outstretched hands as she went.

"I'm glad you came," Bebe said, finally breaking the silence. "I know you don't really go for this sort of thing, but I'm always so bored without you." She pulled back and grinned brightly at her. "Also, you make a great pack mule."

"Ha ha," Wendy said sarcastically, rolling her eyes, though she grinned back and adjusted her grip the the various bags she was holding. Bebe kicked the refrigerator closed, holding an armful of soda, and lead the way to the basement.

--

Bebe always turned on the TV whenever she had a party, whether anyone watched it or not. This was done mainly because she wanted to show the TV off - she'd gotten it for her sixteenth birthday and she was immensely proud of it.

The floor of the basement was covered in sleeping bags of every fabric and hue. Lexus and Lizzy were playing air hockey, but most everyone else was stretched out on their bags. Mercedes was painting her toenails 'champagne.' As far as Wendy could tell, the only difference between 'champagne' and 'off-white' was two dollars and ninety-five cents.

Bebe was talking about her chemistry teacher. And unlike most students, she wasn't complaining about the homework.

"He can teach me chemistry _any day_. I'd love to tie him to the bed with those silk neckties he always wears and ride him all night long."

"Ugh, Bebe," Millie said, her palm connecting with her forehead. "He's old enough to be your grandfather."

"He's like a silver-back gorilla," Bebe said, and growled.

"You are such a whore, Bebe," Annie interrupted. Bebe turned and glared at her. Annie was the only one in South Park with hair that was blonder and bushier than Bebe's.

"Don't throw your misogynic double-standard at _me_," she huffed. "So when a guy does it he's a stud and when a girl does it she's a slut? Puh-lease."

Wendy munched on a few pretzels while they sniped at each other. A Friday ago Bebe had dragged her down to the middle school to scope out the 'hot preteens.' Bebe was pretty much attracted to anything male. Wendy wouldn't say it out loud, because she was her best friend, but she really was rather slutty.

But then, so was Kenny, and everyone more or less put up with him. Wendy was of the opinion that he and Bebe should just screw each other so that the rest of the town wouldn't have to obsessively lock their bedroom windows at night.

"Let's change the subject," Wendy suggested, because Bebe had started to wonder out loud what the best method of slipping her chemistry teacher Viagra was.

"Let's play spin the bottle!" Porsche said in her cheerful, bubbly voice.

"... Porsche, we're all _girls_," Red said.

"Oh," Porsche said, crestfallen.

Wendy rolled her eyes as she bit into a baby carrot. She was really starting to wonder about Porsche. No one at school could tell if she was a lesbian, or if she was just that dim. Wendy guessed it was a little of both.

"Speaking of same-sex digressions," Heidi said, grinning as she unfolded a much-abused newspaper article.

"Would you get rid of that!" Red shrieked immediately, sitting up on her knees on her sleeping bag and making a grab for it. Heidi sat up, too, and held it out of her reach, making a face at her while she did it. Heidi and Red had an odd sort of rivalry, not unlike Cartman and Kyle.

"Where did you get that?" Wendy demanded. She was as unhappy about seeing it as Red was. "I thought Kyle threw them all out."

"No, people just wised up and started hiding their copies when he came around."

"Well I just hope Kyle knows what he's getting himself into," Lola spoke up. "Stan threw up all over my brand new boots last month."

"It's definitely hot, no denying that," Bebe commented, "but it's obviously been Photoshopped."

"How do you know?" Heidi said, deflating slightly.

Bebe grinned smugly. "Did you think I signed up for PE teacher's aid last year for shits and giggles? I got an eyeful of nearly every guy in the locker room while running errands and filing paperwork. And Kyle's got a much hotter body than the guy in that picture."

Annie coughed. It sounded suspiciously like 'whore.'

Heidi unfurled the newspaper and cleared her throat. "_Stanley Marsh, age 16, star quarterback of the high school football team, has for years been plagued with the inability to keep a girl-_"

"Will you _shut UP?_" Red snapped.

"_Who is, incidentally, rarely if ever seen without the company of one Kyle Broflovski, age 16,_" Heidi went on, louder. Red made another grab for the paper and Heidi jumped to her feet, out of the other girl's reach. Heidi stuck her tongue out at her and opened her mouth to continue, when Wendy ripped the paper out of her hands.

"Hey!"

"Don't be so childish," she huffed, folding it up and passing it to Red, who immediately stuffed it in her back pocket. Heidi glowered at her, then smirked and plopped back down, cross-legged.

"Just how much trouble did you get into for printing Cartman's article, Wendy?"

Wendy frowned at her. There was something about her tone that she didn't like. "What do you mean?"

"You must have a serious crush on that boy to risk your precious job as editor to make him happy." Wendy gaped at her, horrified.

"_WHAT?_ Cartman tricked me!"

"Oh, so he distracted you with pillow talk and slipped it in?"

"NO!" she cried, outraged.

"But he's writing you those love letters."

Wendy shot Bebe a betrayed, outraged look. Bebe gave her a regretful, guilty smile and shrugged helplessly.

"I'm sorry, Wendy - it just slipped out."

"So, you've got the hots for Cartman?" Esther asked. "I think they have pills that you can take to care of that."

"I _do not_ have the hots for Cartman!" Wendy snapped.

"All _I'm_ gonna say on the subject is that if you _do_, you really need to stop being so greedy," Mercedes spoke up, screwing the cap on her nail polish and wiggling her toes. "I mean, ooh, Token is the most gorgeous boy in school, and if you don't actually _like_ him..."

"I _do!_"

"Token _is_ hot, isn't he?" Esther said. "He's just so... so..."

"Tall and black?" Annie suggested.

"So, basically, everything your faggy boyfriend isn't," Heidi said with sarcastic sweetness to Red, who growled.

"Kyle wouldn't _look_ good tall and black!" she snarled.

"Seriously, Wendy," Mercedes said, ignoring Red and Heidi as she flicked her hair over her shoulder, "if you don't actually like Token, then get out of the way so someone else can have a crack at him."

"I _do_ like Token," Wendy protested. "I've been dating him for years. I _love_ him."

"Then why would you rather spend time with Cartman than watch Token practice in that hot little uniform?" Bebe asked innocently. Wendy glared at her. Whose side was she on, anyway?

"It's not _Cartman_, it's the _paper_."

The party wound down after that; they put in a couple movies and made popcorn, and Porsche squirmed orgasmically while Mercedes painted her toenails. Bebe talked brightly in Wendy's ear about Clyde who, she assured her, did not have one testicle.

"I'm going to go brush my teeth," Wendy muttered, nudging Bebe with her elbow. Bebe let go of her hair, which she had been twisting into a french braid. Wendy got up and grabbed her toothpaste and toothbrush from her bag, heading upstairs toward the bathroom. She pushed the door open and blinked at Red, who was sitting on the sink, pouring over the picture in the newspaper, her eyebrows knitting together. She frowned, then coughed, and Red started and looked up at her.

"Do you mind?" she asked, brandishing her brush and toothpaste.

"Oh - sorry," Red said, and hopped off the sink. Wendy watched Red (who was still looking down at the photo) in the mirror while she scrubbed her teeth. She spat, wiped her mouth on the corner of a towel, and glanced back at her.

"I'm sure Kyle's not gay, you know."

"Wha-what?" Red said, staring at her. Then she laughed a little. "Ooh, of course. I mean, I know that." She slipped the photo back into her back pocket. "I'm gonna - you know - get dressed in my PJs now."

Wendy nodded and left the bathroom to give her some privacy. She was halfway down the hall when she heard Red call, "Wendy?" and looked back.

Red was leaning against the door frame, one hand on the doorknob. "And, you know - I'm sure you don't actually like Cartman."

Wendy smiled vaguely at her, and then she closed the door.

--

Breakfast consisted off a box of donuts, several opened, flat, half-drank sodas, handfuls of cereal straight from the box, cold pizza, and a jar of peanut butter. This was Bebe's idea of a balanced breakfast.

"How are you so _skinny?_" Esther asked on her way out, openly jealous.

Eventually Wendy was the only girl left over, though this wasn't really because she wanted to be. It was because she couldn't find her bra.

"Where the hell _is_ it?" she wailed, ripping through Bebe's basement, to no avail. Bebe, finally drawn by the noise she was making, descended the stairs and gave her a bemused look.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't find my bra!" Wendy snapped, standing up and wiping some sweat off her brow. Bebe's entire manner changed immediately.

"You don't _know?_"

Wendy turned on her immediately. "Know what?"

"I heard Cassidy on her way out... I figured you'd already found out-"

"_What?_" Wendy demanded.

"Cassidy iced your bra," Bebe admitted. "It's in the freezer."

Wendy gaped at her. Then she thundered up the stairs, skid on the tile floor of the kitchen in her socks, and wrenched the freezer door open. Sure enough, there it was, stuck in next to some frozen green beans. Wendy felt the hand that was gripping the handle shake. She reached in and pulled it out, and slammed the freezer door closed at about the same time Bebe appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"I thought you already knew," Bebe explained. "I'm sorry."

"_When_ did she do it?" Wendy cried.

"While you were brushing your teeth, I guess."

"You _guess?_ Why didn't you see her do it?"

"Wentworth Miller came on TV and I was having a joygasm."

Wendy slammed a fist against the freezer and Bebe winced. "I _hate her_."

"Hey now," Bebe said, not approaching her, obviously wary of her best friend's temper. "Look, Cassidy's a bitch. She's going to get her comeuppance."

Wendy stuffed her bra into her backpack, not answering. She zipped it up and slung it over her shoulder, then crossed her arms over her chest in preparation of the cold, comfortable walk home in front of her. "I'll see you later, Bebe."

"Sure," Bebe agreed. She walked her to the door and then stood there while Wendy walked down her driveway and started walking along the sidewalk. Bebe bit her lip, mulling it over, and then called after her, "Hey - just, you know, sleep it off before you call the Iraqis, okay?"

Wendy lifted up a hand and waved without looking back.

--

TBC


	5. Intuition

The slash is coming... slowly. I assure you, the wait will pay off. However, keep in mind that this fic _is_ Cartman/Wendy first and foremost.

--

--

--

On Monday, Kyle only stopped at the foursome's usual lunch table long enough to give Stan his Spanish notes.

"Thanks," Stan said, stuffing them into his binder. "This language is so needlessly difficult."

"It's not harder than English," Kyle said, zipping up his backpack.

"Says you. At least you can roll your r's."

"It's easy," he reasserted. "I'll show you how sometime. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go find Red and reassure her of my heterosexuality," he added, glaring at Cartman.

Being that Kenny was a pervert, Stan threw up on any girl that came near him, and Cartman was the epitome of everything that could be wrong with a person, it really wasn't much of a surprise that Kyle was the only one with a steady girlfriend. They were sort of a funny looking pair, because they both had the reddest red hair of anyone else in school, and were ridiculously easy to pick out of a crowd.

Cartman snorted.

"Reassure her, or reassure yourself, fag?"

Kyle lunged across the table at him, knocking over Kenny's carton of milk and spilling it on Kenny's lap in the process.

"Aw, asshole!" Kenny shouted. "And you guys wonder why I always smell like sour milk!"

"See you later," Kyle snarled, swinging his backpack over his shoulder and stomping off.

"Hey!" Stan called after him. "Come meet me at practice, all right?"

Kyle lifted up a hand to indicate he'd heard him before disappearing around a corner.

"Going to monopolize Jew-boy, huh?" Kenny asked, stealing Stan's napkin and wiping at his pant leg. "Great, I'm going to be bored all afternoon." He glanced at Cartman. "You want to hang out?"

"Can't," Cartman said. "I have to work with the hippie-bitch on the faggy paper after school. And, also, _no_ I don't want to hang around your shack."

--

Tweek suffering withdraw symptoms was not a pretty sight. Red knew, because she was currently looking at it.

"Christ, Gary, just give him some coffee already," she finally cried, when his shaking got so bad he fell over.

Gary shook his head. "I can't do that, Red. He asked me to help him fight his addiction. What sort of friend would I be if I turned into a pusher?" He bit into a rice crispy square. "Anyway, coffee isn't goof for you. That's why I don't drink it."

"I thought you didn't drink it because you were a moron," Porsche said, her faced screwed up in confusion.

"That's 'mormon,' Porsche," Gary said kindly.

"You," a voice said in Red's ear, "have got the _weirdest_ friends."

"I think Kenny McCormick has the monopoly on weird, Kyle," Red said, turning around to face her boyfriend. She placed her hands on her hips and grinned. "None of _my_ friends die on Tuesday and complain about taking a math test on Wednesday."

"Kenny's more like a piece of furniture than a friend," Kyle joked, dropping his backpack and joining her on the grass, slinging his arm around her shoulder. Red, Tweek, Gary, and Porsche all ate lunch under the only tree on the entire campus. There used to be more, but they got torn up when the illegitimate love child of Peter Serafinowicz and William Donohue went on a rampage.

Long story.

He shifted so that his was back was resting more comfortably against the trunk. Red leaned her head against his shoulder and smiled a little. Kyle was such a nice distraction from Tweek's constant twitching, Gary's unfaltering pleasantness, and the way Porsche had of grabbing her chest for support whenever she fell around Red. Which was often. Usually over imagined cracks on the sidewalk.

"Would you like a rice crispy square, Kyle?" Gary offered in his predictable pleasant manner.

"... yeah. I'm gonna pass."

Red dug her elbow into his stomach. "_Be nice_," she hissed.

"Hey, I like Tweek," Kyle protested. He grinned at her, amused. "And I _really_ like Porsche."

Red dug her elbow into his side again, though she was fighting a smile herself. "You don't have to dislike everyone Stan dislikes, you know," she said, pursing her lips.

Kyle mumbled something. Red sighed and crossed her arms, and then noticed the jealous glare Porsche was shooting at the arm Kyle had draped around her. Fearing for her boyfriend's personal safety - Porsche filed her nails to something that could only be described as claws - she grabbed his hand and pulled it down across her body, letting it rest on her hip, then wrapped her arms around his so that if Porsche were to suddenly attack, she would have to go through Red's body-barricade.

Kyle grinned, oblivious to the terror that could befall him in the form of perfumed, homosexual jealousy at any moment, and flexed his grip on her hip. He kissed her, a little awkwardly given his position. Gary gave a modest cough and looked discreetly away, Tweek shrieked, and Porsche pulled out her nail file, looking as though she would have liked nothing better than to shove it in his eye.

"What are we going to do after school?" Red asked, thinking out loud. "We could go to the mall - you know, sit around and mock mall rats for not having anything better to do. The hypocrisy would be so delicious."

"Oh - no, I'm going to go meet Stan at practice."

Red's smile faded. "You're going to see Stan?"

"You can come too."

"I see," she said, adverting her eyes down and away.

Kyle sighed and turned to face her. "Red," he said seriously, "that article - it's bullshit."

"I know," she said quickly.

"The whole reason that fatass joined the paper was to humiliate Stan and me." He was ranting know. "The only thing I can't understand is why he's still _on_ the paper, now that he's gotten that stupid thing published. I expected him to drop it by now."

"_Hmm_," Red said, gnawing on her bottom lip. Kyle leaned down and kissed her, which was a tad difficult because of the chewing, and then he said, "Lunch is nearly over; I've got to run to my locker before class. I'll meet you by the football field, all right?"

"All right," she said grudgingly, then added, "Football is a sissy sport." Which is what she said about every sport save rugby. Kyle laughed and kissed her again; then he grabbed his backpack, steadied himself on the tree as he stood up, wiped the mud and grass off of his pants, and sped down the hall.

--

"I hate you," Cartman informed her. "So very, very much."

"Uh-huh," Wendy said absently.

"You make me want to punch random passerby's in the throat."

"Mm-hmm," she said, typing on the computer.

Cartman scowled at her back. This new 'ignore Cartman no matter what he says' technique she was trying out on him was _really_ pissing him off. He didn't _want_ her to ignore him.

"You God damn hippie bitch! I'm trying to vocalize my hatred over here!" he ended in a southern drawl. Wendy sighed, scowled, and took a pencil out of her mouth before turning around and answering him.

"Will you shut up, Cartman? Not everyone in the room wants to listen to your outbursts."

"We're the only ones _in_ the room!" Cartman howled, his arms sweeping out on either side of him to illustrate his point. Indeed, no one else had shown up yet again.

"Well, I don't want to listen to them," Wendy said matter-of-factly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Cartman crossed his arms and glared.

"Why does it always have to be me stuck in here? Why don't you have your bitch-boy Brandon in here licking your ass instead? I have other stuff I could be doing!"

"Oh yeah?" Wendy challenged, narrowing her eyes at him. "Like what?"

Cartman hesitated for a second before saying, "Kenny."

Wendy lifted an eyebrow. "Kenny."

"Yes, Kenny," Cartman reaffirmed. "I'm blowing him off for this gay-ass paper. We could be setting things on fire right now."

Wendy rolled her eyes as she gathered all her papers together and tapped them against the table, getting them to stack neatly. "Go get my stapler, all right? It's in my backpack."

Cartman got up, grumbled all the way, and crossed the room to her desk. Several minutes passed, but no stapler presented itself. After a while, Wendy frowned. She'd noticed that Cartman had stopped his bitching, too. In fact, he was deathly silent.

"Cartman, will you hurry up and-" she said, turning around in her seat, and then choked on her words and gave him a horrified look.

He had her backpack, open, in one hand, and an alarmed expression was frozen on his face. The cause of this was her bra, which was dangling from his other hand. Wendy gaped at him, and then the next thing she knew she had slammed the door to the bathroom, locked it, and was leaning heavily against it, trying to catch her breath after sprinting down the halls.

She finally pushed off of the door and went to one of the sinks, checking her reflection. Her face was a red color she hadn't thought appeared in nature. Wendy stuffed her bra back into her backpack and zipped it up tight, her face burning. _Of course_ she just had to use her school backpack whenever she went to a sleepover at Bebe's. And _of course_ when she'd taken out her clothes, pillow, and toothbrush and put her binders and papers back in she'd missed the bra Cassidy had iced.

Wendy heard someone pounding on the door, crying that it was a female emergency. She turned on the water to drown them out, splashing some on her face. However, no matter how much she willed it to fade back to normal, her face stayed stubbornly red.

Jumbled though her thoughts presently were, two came to the forefront of her mind. The first was that Cartman would never let her hear the end of this.

The second was that she hated Cassidy so much it made her want to punch random passerby's in the throat.

--

Because Red's last class of the day was much closer to the football field than Kyle's, she arrived before him. She glanced at the bleachers, where the players' current girlfriends (most of which were also cheerleaders) were situated, painting their nails and reading magazines. Gossiping and brushing each others' hair. Certainly not _watching_ the boys run around the field.

She moved to the far end of one and, after stretching her sleeve over her hand and wiping the remnants of last night's rain storm off her seat, sat down. She smiled reluctantly at Lexus, who was the only one who'd looked over at her. Lexus wasn't really officially 'dating' anyone on the team. She was more like a groupie.

Red didn't like Lexus very much. Out of all the former Raisins employees, she was the most cunning when it came to extorting things out of boys. But she was a close friend of Porsche's, so she had to put up with her.

Lexus returned to her magazine, snapping her gum. Red rubbed her arms and tried to blend in. Given her fire-engine red hair, this was a feat bordering on impossibility. She looked out across the field, and jumped to her feet the moment she spotted Kyle.

That was one of the nice things about absurdly red hair, she supposed: it made someone easy to see from a distance.

"Hey," Kyle greeted her relatively cheerfully. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him; he returned her embrace with slightly less enthusiasm, placing a hand on her back. When their kiss came to its natural end he pulled away and scanned the field until his gaze fell on number 13.

Stan had taken the uniform just to prove to everyone there was no such thing as luck - or the lack there of, as the case may be. Of course, it had ended up being possessed, and they had had a bitch of a time exorcising it, but as Stan was always quick to remind them, it wasn't _unlucky_.

Kyle cupped his hands over his mouth and hollered, "Ey! STAN!" He turned around quickly at the sound of his name, and instead of catching the pass Craig had just thrown him, it hit him in the side of the head. Kyle snickered.

Stan, Token, and Craig were the only members of the football team who had originated from South Park Elementary. Token and Craig were obvious choices, and fit the stereotype well, but Kyle had always been somewhat secretly amused that Stan was on the team. Because Stan had braces, and asthma, and was far too nice to people like Butters, and was in nearly every aspect a complete dork.

Red looked at the soft, fond grin on Kyle's face and followed his gaze to Stan, who seemed torn between grinning and yelling at him. He settled with waving, then flipped Kyle off, then turned back to resume practice.

Red squeezed Kyle's hand to get his attention back, and he glanced down at her.

"I wanted to tell you something I heard this weekend."

"Yeah? What?"

"Well, you were wondering why Cartman didn't leave the paper after he ran that article-" Kyle's face darkened; she pushed on "-and, I was thinking. A couple of girls, they accused Wendy of liking Cartman. Do you think they might have a _thing_?"

Kyle gaped at her a moment. Then he cracked up. He held his knees and laughed and laughed. "That," he wheezed, "is the funniest fucking thing I have ever heard."

"So you don't think so?"

"Of course not!"

"... yes..." she said slowly. "That's what I thought."

"Then why'd you ask me if I thought they-" he chortled "-'had a _thing_'?"

"Just checking my woman's intuition," she breathed out, quietly, because Kyle's attention had already been diverted again and he wasn't listening. Red hugged herself and found it was difficult to look at Stan. She settled with watching the other players run back and forth across the field instead.

--

The next football game happened the following Thursday, against Middle Park. Though it was a Thursday, it was a week where there was no newspaper, and so Wendy had no reason to skip it. She got into an argument with Token that afternoon, however, and was seriously considering doing just that until Bebe cornered her and said that if she wasn't going to go to support Token, she could at least go to support _her_.

So that's why Wendy was sitting on the cold metal bleacher that night, her hood on as it snowed lightly, off and on, thin flakes floating down and melting on the bodies of the spectators. She watched Bebe and the rest of the cheerleaders perform a cheer that made her feel vaguely as though she owed them a five dollar bill, thinking absently about what still needed to be down to the get next week's paper out.

She didn't know why everyone around her was acting so excited. Granted, she wasn't paying attention, but South Park never won against Middle Park. They were too good, and South Park was too, well... bad.

It was only when the crowd huddled on the bleachers started shouting and stomping their feet so hard that it made her seat shake that she took notice. She looked on either side of herself, completely bemused, and then leaned into Kevin, whom was seated next to her.

"What happened?"

"We won!"

Wendy blinked. "We what?"

"_Won!_ We _won_ you deaf bitch!" he whooped, not even looking at her. Wendy scowled at him and turned away, and then she saw Bebe making her way up the bleachers towards her, elbowing people out of her way.

"Wendy! Can you believe it?" Bebe asked, flushed, and clasped her hands. Grinning, she looked over her shoulder at the players still grouped on the field.

"Will you just _look_ at all that gorgeous man-flesh?" Bebe gushed, raking the bodies of the football players with her eyes.

Wendy rolled her eyes a little. "You know," she said, "you _are_ pretty whorish."

"No, I'm slutty," Bebe corrected. "Whores get paid." She grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her toward the winner's circle.

The cheerleaders had rushed over for congratulatory hugs and gropes, and the players still looked like they couldn't quite believe they'd won. The people on the bleachers were starting to pour out onto the field as well, many whooping with excitement, and Wendy growled a little at the girls that were flocking around Token. She edged between them and him, slipping her arm around his waist so that everyone knew he was with her.

Her eyes sought out and quickly located Stan - he'd removed his helmet, his face flushed in victory and looking exhilarated. Kenny was already at his side, trying to wrestle his helmet out of his hands. He obviously thought that if he was wearing it he might trick some of the more air-headed cheerleaders into thinking he was on the team, and would consequently get in on the victory orgy. As she watched Kyle appeared, Red at tow, and the two of them were followed by... Cartman. Wendy felt a little rush of relief when she saw him and let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding; if he'd been in the crowd then he hadn't been messing with the newspaper.

Kyle thumped Stan on the back and congratulated him; Red tried rather unsuccessfully to recapture her boyfriend's attention while he chatted Stan up. She bit her lip, her expression a little desperate and hopeless, and tugged on his arm one last time. When Kyle brushed her off she stood there a moment longer, looking dejected, and then she turned and disappeared into the swelling crowd.

As Wendy followed her progress through the students her eyes met and consequently locked with Cartman's; he was looking at her and Token and scowling. Wendy glared back at him and tightened her grip on Token's side, feeling strangely defiant.

"Wendy?"

She blinked and tipped her head back to look at Token, and then she broke into a bright smile and relaxed her grip a little, realizing she'd been clinging to him. Token always complained when she clung to him.

"That was a great game," she congratulated him, smiling, even though she'd spent most of it thinking about the newspaper and the rest of her schoolwork. Token grinned at her and started going on about the plays, and she nodded where it was required of her.

"Hey," Craig spoke up, "we've _got_ to have a victory party. I mean, we beat mother fucking _Middle Park!_"

"And where are we supposed to have a party in this town?" Token asked sarcastically.

"You could go to Butters' house," a voice spoke up. Wendy immediately zoned in on Cartman, who'd talked into the back of his hand to try and throw his voice. She gave him an outraged look, but unfortunately, she was the only one who saw what he'd tried to do. Everyone else in the crowd latched onto the idea, just as Cartman had wanted them to.

"Yeah!" Craig hollered. "After party at Butters' house!" There was a loud whoop and several other people took up the cry.

"N-now wait uh minute, fellas," Butters said, rubbing the back of his neck. "My parents aren't home-"

"Prefect!" Clyde cheered.

"No! I'll get grounded!" Butters wailed. But he was drowned out by the crowd, which was now chanting and marching off the field toward the parking lot.

--

TBC


	6. Stolen Steering Wheel

_Toweeelie!_

Fun Fact About My Writing That Probably No One Cares About: before I actually started writing him, I assumed Cartman would be the hardest character to keep IC. I find him surprisingly easy to write for, however. Kyle's actually the one that gives me the most trouble.

--

--

--

"So Wendy called me. About three weeks ago."

"Uh-huh."

"I was thinking-"

"Really."

"-_yes_, damn it, you don't have to sound so skeptical, bastard - and maybe I have a shot. You know. With her."

Stan and Kyle were seated on Butters' couch, the music blaring and people milling around them. The TV was on, but it was being drowned out by the dull roar of the partygoers. Not that anyone was watching it, anyway; not even Kyle, who was staring resolutely at it to avoid looking at Stan, who was trying to rope him into a discussion about Wendy and the possibility of re-igniting a seven-year cold romance.

Unfortunately Red had disappeared, Kenny was off flirting fairly heavily with Bebe (no surprise there, as she had the biggest chest in the high school) and Kyle hated Cartman and hoped he was choking to death, wherever he was (Kyle hadn't seen him since they'd arrived, which was more than fine by him). Which all meant that there was no one to distract him from Stan's whining.

It wasn't that he was unsympathetic. He was. Or at least, he had been. When they broke up. Seven _years_ ago.

He said this to Stan, who frowned and said, "I _know_."

"Man, you've got to get over it."

"Yeah. But I just... I really loved her."

"You were nine."

"I _know!_" Stan snapped. Kyle waited for him to say something else, and when he didn't, he sighed.

"Man, she's dating Token. She's been dating Token for years. Don't get all hung up on a phone call."

"But-"

"She called you to _apologize_ because Cartman is an _asshole_."

"She didn't call _you_."

"That's because I think she's a crazy bitch."

"She is not!"

"Dude, she had Miss Ellen shot into the _sun_. That's the sort of thing I'd expect from... _God_. From _Cartman_."

"I still don't believe she did that," Stan mumbled. Kyle scowled at him, obviously pissed at being called a liar.

"I'm just saying it's a far cry from phone sex."

Stan colored. "God damn it, Kyle, shut the fuck up," he grumbled, sliding down in his seat and folding his arms. Kyle sighed again and looked over at him. Stan may have been an obsessive pussy, but he was his best friend and this party was supposed to be in celebration of him and the other football players. Kyle wanted him to enjoy himself. He cast around for something he could say to cheer him up, and then he grinned.

"Anyway, man," he joked, "if you went after Wendy, you'd have to compete with fatass."

Stan's head twisted around so fast Kyle was surprised he didn't hear a bone snap. "_What?_ Where did you hear _that?_"

Kyle's laughter died at Stan's reaction. "Dude," he said, "I was just kidding."

"Where did you hear it?" he demanded.

He frowned. "It was just some stupid girl-crap Red told me."

"What did she _say!_"

"That some girls accused Wendy of liking Cartman! Jesus Christ, Stan, don't get so worked up over it!"

They both sat and fumed for several minutes, each equally pissed off at the other. Eventually Stan's attention wandered, however, and he noticed Butters for the first time. The blond looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack, and was trying rather desperately to clean the place up even while Lizzy giggled and spilled her drink on the carpet.

"... God damn it," Stan mumbled. He glanced at Kyle, who was staring at Butters as well. "We've got to help him out."

"I know," Kyle said, and sighed heavily. "God _damn_ it. Sometimes I really hate having a conscience."

--

"I think I've had too much to drink. Or not enough. It's hard to tell."

Wendy gave Token a distasteful look as he knocked back another beer. She had never really liked football parties - the whole situation just smacked of smug self-satisfaction. It was like jerking off, but with more clean up afterward. Or so she imagined. She wasn't really drawing on personal experience here.

"Would you get me another bottle?" Token asked.

"Sure," Wendy said, glad for the excuse to leave the room and with no intention of actually bringing him back anything. She left him with Clyde and Kevin and wandered through the house, incredibly bored. Bebe had ditched her the moment they'd walked in through the front door to go sit in Kenny's lap, and she didn't care enough for the rest of the girls present to put up with them drunk.

Wendy went upstairs, edging around the couple that were making out against the banister. She made a face at them as she passed. Wendy didn't know why she'd thought the conditions upstairs might be better than those downstairs; in ten minutes she encountered a locked bedroom door, someone hugging the toilet and puking their guts out, and (arguably the worst of it all) Kenny.

"Hey there, gorgeous," he said cheerfully when she turned around, walking right into a bright, bold '87.' "Why is a good girl like you in a bad place like this?"

"I came with my boyfriend," she said, stressing the word while taking a step backward and grabbing his hand from its southward journey along her side, shoving it back at him.

"Well, I don't see any boyfriend around, so how 'bout you and I go find a nice secluded place where you can tell me just how undeserving he is of you-"

"This isn't a 'finders, keepers' situation, Kenny," she said, sighing and crossing her arms. "And if you push me, I really wouldn't have any qualms with killing you to defend myself."

"Fine, fine," Kenny said, holding up his hands unthreateningly. "I get it; you're taken. I'll keep my hands to myself. Though it seems that's all I get to do, lately," he added in a grumble.

Wendy wrinkled her nose. "Ew, Kenny."

"You just looked bored, is all," he went on blandly. "So am I."

"Weren't you with Bebe?" Wendy asked, frowning. Bebe was a lot of things, but boring certainly wasn't one of them.

"Yeah, but she found out Tweek had passed out, so she went to go feel him up."

Wendy blinked. "Tweek drank?"

"Someone told him beer would take the edge off those caffeine withdraw pains, apparently," Kenny said, shrugging.

"So then what are you doing now?"

"Lexus," Kenny said simply.

"... The Prostitute Prodigy?" she asked.

Kenny nodded, grinning. "One and the same."

"What about Lexus?"

"Like I said, I'm doing her... or will be, hopefully. She said she'd fuck me if I did something impressive for her."

If she hadn't been so desensitized by Bebe, Wendy would have been outraged by Kenny's behavior. Instead, she merely wrinkled her nose again. "So what are you going to do?"

"Jump off the roof into the pool," he said. Wendy gaped at him.

"You can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Because Butters doesn't _have_ a pool!" she cried. There was a pause while Kenny thought this over.

"Oh yeah, huh."

"Are you drunk?" Wendy asked suspiciously.

"Of course not," Kenny said, sounding insulted. "Girls just lower my inhibitions. I've got to drive Stan and Kyle's drunk asses back home, anyway."

Stan appeared then, almost as if he'd been summoned. "Kenny, we've got to-" he began, then noticed Wendy and stopped. She smiled a little at him, willing her body to emit an aura of 'I don't like you like that.'

"What's up, man?" Kenny asked, drawing Stan's attention away from her.

"... You're better at breaking up parties than Kyle or me," Stan said, glancing at Kenny. "Butters' about to have a nervous breakdown, man."

"Great," Kenny said sarcastically. "Kicking a bunch of drunk partygoers out of the house and then cleaning up after them - just how I wanted to spend my evening. Why can't you and Kyle be inconsiderate assholes like Cartman?"

"I'd like to think I'm nothing like Cartman," Stan said. Wendy frowned a little.

"Fine," Kenny grumbled. He gave Wendy a sidelong glance. "You might want to vacate the premises."

"Why?"

"It would be in your best interests," he said cryptically. She lifted an eyebrow at him, then glanced at Stan, but when neither gave her any more information she shrugged and made her way down the stairs and out the front door.

The snow had picked up since the game had ended, Wendy noticed. She shivered, fumbling with her zipper for a moment in the dark before zipping her sweater all the way up, then rubbed her arms and wondered what the hell Kenny was doing.

It was at about this moment that Kenny came outside, found the hose, turned it on as far as it would go, and then walked calmly back inside.

Wendy blinked. A second passed, maybe two, and then she heard outraged shrieks and crashes inside, and immediately people began pouring out into the yard.

"What's going on?" Wendy asked Bebe, once she appeared. The blond laughed, loudly, and swept her hair out of her face.

"Kenny told everyone one to leave, and when they didn't, he started spraying them with the hose."

Bebe seemed to be the only person who found it humorous, however. Everyone else was shouting angrily and scrambling for their cars. Everyone was eager to get out of the snow, especially the ones who had been sprayed.

"This isn't going to make Kenny very popular," she observed.

"Eh, he's already a reject. I mean, even hell keeps throwing him back. That's got to smart." Bebe wrapped her arms around herself and grinned. "Me and Tweek're heading back to his place. You'll be okay getting home, right?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it," Wendy said. Bebe gave her one last grin and a generous wink, then hurried over to Tweek, who was practically falling down. Wendy sighed a little, shaking her head, and looked back at the house.

"Hey. Let's go." Token's voice was unmistakable, even when it was slurred like that. Wendy turned to face him, frowning.

"Token, you're too drunk to drive."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, brandishing his keys. "Come on," he went on, walking to his car. He unlocked the door, only dropping the keys a couple of times, and climbed in. There was a moment of silence while he fumbled around his seat, his hands groping out in front of him, and then Token made an outraged noise.

"Someone stole my steering wheel!" he exclaimed, indignant, then passed out. Wendy looked on.

He'd gotten into the back seat.

Wendy sighed, massaging her forehead, and quickly ran through her options. Bebe was gone. She could try calling her, but she was with Tweek so she probably had her cell phone on vibrate and was... Yeah. So. Bebe was out. Wendy didn't want to traumatize herself.

She glanced around, but nearly everyone had driven off already, and everyone else was in the process of doing so. Besides, Wendy didn't want any of these people to know where she lived. She could call her parents, she supposed, but then they'd get on her case for going to a party with alcohol, even if she hadn't had anything to drink herself.

Wendy cursed herself for putting off her driving lessons. If she hadn't, she could have been able to drive Token's car home. But how was she supposed to know it would come back and bite her in the ass like this?

She could go back inside. That option was looking more and more attractive as it continued to snow around her. She could go inside and help clean up Butters' house with Stan, Kenny, and Kyle and wait until they were done so that one of them could give her a ride home. But... she didn't want to put up with Stan, who liked her more than he should, or Kenny, or liked her ass more than he should, or Kyle, who... actually, she liked Kyle okay. But he thought she was a bitch, so she didn't want to put up with _that_. Kyle had the incredibly annoying habit of holding all Stan's grudges, even when Stan himself had long ago gotten over it.

But she really didn't have any other options, so she'd just have to suck it up and-

A horn honked.

Wendy looked over her shoulder, back toward the street, at the car that had pulled up to the curb. The driver leaned over toward the passenger window, and Wendy blinked in surprise. It was none other than Cartman.

"Hey, ho," he called. "Want a ride?"

Wendy's eyebrows rose considerably. She glanced at him skeptically, then looked back at Token. A good girlfriend, Wendy knew, wouldn't leave her boyfriend passed out in the back of his car and accept a ride home from another boy. A good girlfriend would at the very least call a cab and wait with him until it arrived.

But Wendy was cold, and the Stotch's driveway was rapidly clearing of teenagers shocked into soberness by being sprayed with a hose and kicked out into the snow. And Cartman had a car, and a heater, and Wendy hadn't really wanted to be there in the first place.

She walked cautiously up to the passenger door, expecting him to peel out of there the moment she put her hand on the door, spraying her with melted snow and laughing uproariously. When he didn't, she eyed him suspiciously. She couldn't help but remember the last time he'd offered her something.

"You're not going to make me beg?"

Cartman snorted. "God, you just can't let anything go, can you, ho?" She glared and he said, "Just get in."

So, against all better judgment, she did.

Cartman gunned the engine and then they were cruising down the street. Wendy cranked the heat up and rubbed her hands together, then held them out in front of one of the vents. Her fingers had gone numb and she hadn't even felt it. Though, come to think of it, that was sort of the definition of numb.

Wendy steeled herself for the verbal abuse she was undoubtedly about to be subjected to. Cartman had been suspiciously silent about the bra-in-the-backpack incident all week. Or, as Wendy liked to refer to it, The Event That Made Her Want to Run Away to the Mountains and be Raised by Abortion-Performing Mountain Lions Rather Than Show Her Face in Public.

But after several blocks he still hadn't said anything. Wendy first glanced furtively at him through the corner of her eye, then turned her head and looked at him, then made an exasperated noise, turned in her seat, and stared blatantly at him.

"All right, _what?_"

"What do you mean 'what,' bitch?"

One of Wendy's eyebrows twitched. "I know you're not giving me a ride home out of the kindness of your heart. What do you want?"

"Nothing."

She snorted. "Yeah, right."

"You know, you really piss me off. You're always munching at my ass when I do something 'immoral,' but when I _don't_ you get all suspicious."

Wendy snickered and leaned back in her seat. That small, shallow girly-girl part of her head was currently squealing and carrying on about how nice the seats, and in fact his entire car, was. Wendy supposed that was the pay off for having a crack whore for a mother. "Uh-huh, Cartman. Look, you might fool Kyle from time to time with that 'reformed sinner' act, but that's because Kyle is an eternal optimist. You can't fool me."

Cartman came to a stop at an intersection. He glanced at her face while waiting for the light to turn green.

"You really want to know?"

"Yes, I _really_ want to know."

"No bullshit?"

"No bullshit."

"No way in hell was I going to stick around and help those assrammers and Kenny clean up that pussy's house. I'd rather take a cheese grater to my balls."

"So...?"

"So what better way to get out of it than offer some damsel in distress a ride home? It's an airtight excuse; I don't have to do it and those assholes can't even bitch to me about ditching them."

Wendy frowned. "So you're only driving me home because you rather mutilate yourself than help Butters out."

"That's right."

The light changed and Cartman put his foot on the gas. Wendy sat up again and fiddled with the heater, not looking at him. She didn't understand it, but she felt... disappointed. Last weekend, Bebe had had her half-believing Cartman actually _was_ writing those letters. After all... it was a _possibility_, no matter how far-fetched, right?

"Here," Cartman said, cruising to a stop in front of her mailbox. Her parents had left the porch light on for her, though the rest of the house was dark. Wendy opened the door, climbed out, and hesitated, feet on the sidewalk, hand still on the door. She turned back around to look at him curiously, biting her lip.

"Cartman... could you really... do you..."

"Do I _what?_"

She shook her head and looked away. "Never mind."

"Then close the door, you crazy bitch. I have the heater on."

--

_Wendy_

_You can rely on me._

_Love, Anonymous_

--

TBC


	7. The Working Class

I'm really pleased with how this chapter turned out, actually... not a lot happens, but it's a good transitional chapter, I think.

And I want to thank everyone that has read/reviewed. I seriously didn't expect this fic to get much acknowledgment, being het in a predominantly slash section. So, thank you! Reviews are awesome, and it's always rewarding to know people are reading.

Also, speaking of the slash: next chapter. Promise.

--

--

--

The next day, Bebe came to visit the journalism class for the first time.

"Your breasts are distracting Brandon," Wendy said irritably.

"Wow, is this _it? This_ is what you're ditching Token for? I thought the walls would be made out of chocolate or there would be Swedish boys giving out massages the way you went on about it."

She walked around the room once.

"This is really _it?_"

"Yes," Wendy said stiffly. "And I like it. Why are you here, anyway?"

"I didn't get a chance during lunch to tell you what happened with Tweek. So we got to his house-"

"I _don't_ want to hear this," Wendy said with a grimace.

"Oh, shush, you prude," Bebe said, waving a hand at her. "It turned out his parents were still home, so nothing happened. I wish it _had_, though, Mr. Tweek is seriously hot-"

"Bebe," Wendy said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Don't you have a date with Token? What are you doing here in journalism?"

Wendy sighed a little and gave Brandon some papers. She had to forcefully grab his hands, pry them apart, and set the papers in them, because Brandon was too enraptured with Bebe's chest to notice her trying to hand them to him. Bebe smirked and winked at him, which he completely missed, as he was not looking at her face.

"Token canceled on me. One of his coworkers over at Shakey's called in sick, so he had to take their shift."

"_WHAT?_"

The source of this cry of outrage was none other than Cartman. Wendy turned around and frowned at him. She hadn't spoken to him since last night, when he'd called her a bitch, but the messily written note she'd found in Cassidy's inbox this morning had sent a surge to her stomach. She hadn't been able to stop herself from thinking when she picked it up (_Wendy, You can rely on me - Love, Anonymous_) that Bebe _was_ a pretty perceptive person.

"What are you doing eavesdropping on us, Cartman?"

"It's sort of hard to _not_ hear your high-pitched crackle, Wendy," he said matter-of-factly. "But never mind - Token works at _Shakey's?_"

Wendy frowned some more. "What's it to you?"

"I can't believe this!" Cartman shouted, outraged. "First they took my restaurant from me because I still hadn't paid of my debt for the theme park, and now they're letting any black asshole that walks in work there! Where will the the madness end?" he raged on. Wendy gave him an utterly baffled look.

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Shakey's! That was _my_ Shakey's!"

Wendy snorted. "Yeah, right."

"I am so for seriously! But I had to give it to the IRS because that asshole Kenny had to go and die on my roller coaster, so I never even got to eat a slice of pizza!"

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Sure."

Cartman scowled at her. Then he said, "Token, he's working there? Right now?"

"Yeah, but-"

"I'm out of here. No way am I letting this gay little paper eat into my weekend." Wendy could scarcely get out a word of protest before he was out the door. She stared after him, feeling vaguely disappointed he'd left.

"He was trying to impress you."

Wendy jumped at the whispered voice in her ear and turned around to look at Bebe, who'd been quietly watching the exchange between the two of them.

"What?"

"Bragging about all that stuff he used to own - a restaurant, an amusement park - he was trying to impress you, girl."

Wendy bit her lip and looked at the door.

"... don't be stupid, Bebe."

--

"Kenny, we are going to Shakey's."

Kenny blinked a little. Most people expected a 'hello' when they opened their front door, after all, not a command from an out-of-breath fatass. Cartman had obviously hurried to Kenny's house.

"Look, man," Kenny finally said, "I may not being getting any action right now, but I'm still holding out for a chick. Now, if you want to crossdress and empty sperm banks that's cool with me, but I'm not into that."

"God damn it, shut up Kenny!" Cartman snarled, while Kenny held his sides and laughed, propping himself up against the crooked door frame. He didn't know how Kenny had even found out about the crap that had happened while he was dead. If he had to guess, he'd say Kenny had been spying on his memories when he'd been sharing his body.

"Shut up!" Cartman repeated, but Kenny just laughed harder. "Kenny you poor piece of crap, if you don't stop laughing I'll tell every girl within a 100-mile radius that you've been inside me, and then you see if you ever get laid again!"

Kenny shut up instantly, glaring at him. "You _would_. All right, fine, you win. Now, why are we going to Shakey's?"

"Token's working and I'm going to go harass him."

Kenny frowned and scratched his chin. "Shakey's... wait, _Shakey's_-Shakey's? The one you built by faking caring that I was dying, then rounding up all the stem cells and dumping them on the sidewalk?"

"Yeah."

Kenny glared. "No way. Fuck you."

"Kenny, damn it!"

"Why can't you go play with Token by yourself? Why do _I_ have to come?"

"_Because_," he whined, "it'll be too obvious. You're a perfect cover for my motives. I can say I'm there because I'm doing my civic duty to give a less fortunate a meal."

Kenny frowned and crossed his arms. He wouldn't let Cartman know, because letting Cartman known anything meant opening yourself up to exploitation, but he'd had him at the mention of free food. "All right, fine. Let's go." He walked down his front steps with him and, while waiting for him to unlock his beat-up old car, Kenny thought to ask Cartman a question.

"Cartman?"

"What, welfare-boy?"

"_Why_ are you going to harass Token?"

"Because he's an asshole! I don't need a reason! It's _my_ restaurant!" Cartman shouted out three different explanations in rapid succession. "Get it in the God damn car and stop asking questions!"

--

"All right, Stanley, take your break!" the assistant manager barked. Stan let out a relieved breath and untied his spock as he stepped away from the cash register. He'd had to come over directly after school and restock all their Halloween merchandise.

Stan's stomach growled and he glared down at it. He'd forgotten his wallet that morning, so all he'd be able to get was a glass of water from the dispenser in the break room. There really ought to be a law against making people work on an empty stomach, and putting away bags upon bags of candy corn hadn't exactly helped.

He was making his way to back room when he heard Kyle enthusiastically call his name. Stan turned around and say him by the dog food section, waving to catch his attention. Not that it was really needed. Kyle's Jewfro was enough of an identifying feature all on its own.

"Hey!" Stan said brightly, walking over. "What're you doing here?" Kyle hated J-mart and similar corporations and tended to avoid him like the plague.

"I thought you might be hungry," Kyle said, shrugging, and extended the bag of potato chips he'd been holding. Stan stared at him, then down at the chips, then ripped them out of his hand and tore open the bag.

"My God, I love you."

Kyle laughed. "It's just a bag of chips. What are you going to do if I bring you a sandwich, offer sexual favors?"

"Depends on what kind of sandwich it is."

They walked to the garden section so that they could sit down on the benches on sale. Stan scarfed down the potato chips like a dying man, crumpled up the bag, hid it under a potted plant, and then stretched out on the bench, crossing his ankles and folding his arms.

"So... about Wendy. I was thinking-"

Kyle groaned and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. Stan scowled at him. "What? _What?_"

"Look, man, if you're going to talk about Wendy, I'm going to leave."

Stan scowled a little. "What's your problem?"

"It's fucking annoying, that's my problem." Kyle couldn't explain it - not even to himself - but listening to Stan talk on and on about Wendy just _really_ got on his nerves. "You're obsessed."

"I am not _obsessed!_ I was just wondering how she got home last night," he said, glaring. "Token was in the back of his car when we finished cleaning up Butters' house."

"Cartman gave her a ride home."

Stan stared at him. Then, after a very long pause, he blinked. "How'd you know that?"

"Kenny told me."

"How'd Kenny know?"

"Because _Cartman_ told _him?_"

Stan glared. "You don't have to get sarcastic." They were both silent, and then he continued hesitantly. "Do ya really think... Cartman and Wendy...?"

"No."

"But-"

"Cartman's just planning something," Kyle said, rolling his eyes. "Kenny says he's been acting all secretive lately and making him go do a bunch of stupid shit for him, like going down to the pharmacy and buying a bunch of sleeping pills."

"Huh," Stan said, not sounding convinced.

"So just... forget about it, man," Kyle said. "When are you off work?"

"In about an hour and a half," Stan grumbled. "Man, and I had to put up with the stupidest shit today. One woman comes over and asks me how much the stupid candles cost, so I walk halfway across the store and then pick them up and look on the bottom, _because that's where the fucking price is!_" He scowled. "And then she stands there and asks me how much the slightly larger candles cost... Jesus Christ."

"Yep, that sounds horrible all right," Kyle said, sounding a touch amused.

"Ey, shut up. It's fucking annoying when you have to put up with the town's collective stupidity for hours on end... I swear, it makes me want to go into a store and knock a display over..."

Kyle laughed.

"Stanley!" The assistant manager was back, glaring at him, her hands on her hips. "Your break ended _five minutes ago!_ Now get up and finish stocking the Halloween candy!" She stormed off and Stan sighed, standing up and retying his apron. He hadn't even gotten to take it off, he reflected sadly.

Kyle stood up as well and trailed after him to the candy aisle. Stan fished a box cutter out of one of his front pockets and opened one of the many boxes stacked there, got a armful of bagged candy, and then began loading the shelves with it. "I can't stand that assistant manager, either," he went on, as if their conversation hadn't been interrupted. "You know she'll get on my case if I hang around talking to you instead of stock shelves."

"Hey, as far as she's concerned, I'm a customer and you're helping me pick out..." he turned around to look at what the shelf behind him held "... birth control pills. Hmm. Or maybe not."

Stan laughed, loudly, and his assistant manager manifested.

"Stanley! We are not paying you to play with your friends!"

And then she was gone again.

"Bitch," Stan grumbled, grabbing another handful of chocolate bars. "I fucking hate this job."

"So why don't you quit?"

"Don't start that again." Kyle had been trying to get him to quit ever since he'd gotten the job, whining that they never got to hang out anymore. Besides, Kyle hated huge corporation stores.

"I thought you were going to quite once school started." He paused. "Why'd you get a job at J-mart, anyway? Your parents weren't even on you case about working."

"Because it teaches responsibility, and maturity, and it pays well."

"No, seriously. Why'd you get a job at J-mart?"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"I'm doing it for the discount on polo shirts."

"Don't be a smartass, Stan. Why'd you have to work at _J-mart?_"

"They're the only ones who'd hire me."

"These big corporations are evil, man. Like the borg. You're being assimilated. I _hate_ J-mart."

"Yet you keep coming here."

Kyle scowled. "What, do you expect me to hang out with the fatass just because you sold your soul for five-fifty an hour?"

"I get paid more than _that_."

"That's not the point. Dude, I thought we already went through this in fourth grade."

"So? Physics are full of crap and you still read your horoscope every morning."

They glared at each other, and then Kyle broke it off and frowned to himself. "Why are we fighting?"

"Dunno," Stan said, going back to filling the shelves with bagged candy.

"We seem to do that a lot more often, lately."

"I wonder why."

"Kenny..." Kyle glanced up. "Kenny says it's UST."

Stan froze. His gaze flickered to Kyle's, then back to the bag of snickers in his hand.

"... Kenny's a pervert."

"Yeah."

--

"We," Cartman said, his hands resting on the steering wheel, having parked his car in front of the restaurant, "are going to sit in Token's section."

"Um, okay?" Kenny said, glancing sideways at him. "Then why aren't we going in?"

"I don't know which section is Token's," Cartman explained. Kenny sighed and let his forehead meet his palm with a resounding smack. Cartman ignored his theatrics. "So you're going to go in and see which tables he's waiting on."

"Why me?"

"Because you're poor, God damn it! Poor people lurk around restaurants!"

"We do not, asshole!"

"Just go before I kick you in the nuts!" Cartman barked, jabbing an authoritative finger toward the door. Kenny scowled at him and swung the passenger door open.

"I don't know why I put up with your shit," he grumbled, climbing out. Though that was, of course, a lie, Kenny reflected, as he swung the door open, a little bell alerting his presence to the room. He put up with it because he was Cartman's best friend - a pretty crappy job, but someone had to do.

Actually, Kenny's relationship with Cartman was entirely unique from any other the fat boy had, for the simple reason that Kenny was the only person in town that felt _sorry_ for Eric Cartman. Sorry enough to be his test dummy for the brown noise, sorry enough to will him a PSP, and sorry enough to do inane things for him with little or no explanation.

Kenny glanced around the restaurant. Shakey's had more or less gone under when Whistlin' Willy's Pizza opened up a place across the street. It had only managed to stay afloat by drastically altering their menu. Now, even though it was called 'Shakey's Pizza,' it actually served just about everything _but_ pizza. Kyle said it was like the world had just vomited up some food from each country, and he thought it was disgusting. Kenny liked their Chinese Rice Chili Dog, though.

As Kenny saw it, he could do this one of two ways. He could stand around for a while, watching tables until he drew attention to himself and freaked everyone out, or he could ask someone which tables Token was serving.

Opting for the intelligent choice, he stopped the nearest waitress.

"Oh, Kenny!" she said, her eyes widening a little. Kenny didn't recognize her, but it didn't really surprise him that she recognized him. Pretty much everyone in town knew Kenny McCormick, The Boy That Just Can't Stay Dead, by sight. "What do you want?"

"Which tables are Token Black waiting on today?"

"Section four," she said. He gave her a blank look. "Oh - those tables over there," she said, gesturing. "I've got to get this chocolate lemonade to table nine," she said, excusing herself. Kenny checked out the tables she'd indicated, then turned around and went back outside.

"What took you so long?" Cartman demanded.

Kenny rolled his eyes a little. "C'mon, there's a free table inside."

--

Token refilled the drinks from table twelve, pausing momentarily to try and remember whether the mother had ordered a regular coke or a diet.

"Token," one of the waitresses called, "a couple of guys just sat down at table eleven. You'd better grab a bread basket."

He sighed a little as he left the kitchen, juggling the soda and bread. Right now he should be in a dark movie theater with Wendy snuggled up next to him, eating popcorn and taking a load off. He deposited the drinks at table twelve, asking them quickly if they wanted anything else and feeling relieved when they said no.

He'd really been looking to that date with Wendy, too. It seemed like he never got to see her anymore - she'd been too busy to even talk to him ever since she'd started spending all her time with the journalism class and-

_Cartman._

Token, who'd just turned towards table eleven and finally saw _who_ was seated there, gaped. There was the fat bastard himself, sitting with Kenny and glaring straight at him.

"What are you guys doing here?"

"_Trying_ to order some lunch," Cartman said. "But the service here is abysmal."

Token frowned and glanced at Kenny. Kenny was generally a good buffer for Cartman's insults - unsurprisingly, as his entire purpose in life (lives?) seemed to be absorbing abuse. The point being, when Kenny was with Cartman, everyone else was more or less spared. Except Kyle. But that was to be expected.

Kenny, however, was studying the complementary bread Token had placed on their table. "Is this free?"

"Yes," Token sighed.

"Could you bring me about ten more baskets' worth, then? And some to go boxes."

"And _I_ want a Hindu burger. And some mozzarella stir fry. And coconut-curry! And you better not burn any of it, black asshole!"

Token jotted it all down, grinding his teeth a little. The only thing that kept him from scowling was the fact that, no matter how much of a racist asshole Eric Cartman was, he was still a customer. Token wasn't going to lose his job just because Cartman was a dick.

He brought their order back to the kitchen, grabbed the bread baskets Kenny had asked for (luckily, they stacked well), and poured two glasses of water for them, resolving to not let anything Cartman had to say get to him.

This was immediately tested when he returned to their table. Cartman took on sip of his water and promptly spat it back out.

"UGH! What the shit is this?"

"Water," Token said testily.

"This glass is dirty!" Cartman said, scowling at him.

"It is not!"

"Are you arguing with a customer?" Cartman demanded. He held his glass up and jabbed a finger at it. "Just _look_ at that smudge!"

"There _is no smudge_, Cartman."

"You're blind! It's huge!" he asserted, pointing to a nonexistent spot on his glass. "Get me a new one!"

Token did so, grinding his teeth some more. He brought another glass out; Cartman promptly knocked it over, then vehemently denied having done such a thing even though Token had been standing there and _watched_ him smack it it off the edge of the table. Table eleven called for their check so Token went back, brought it out along with a towel, deposited it at their table, then got on his knees next to Cartman's chair and mopped up the floor while Cartman smirked over him.

"So, I hear you're saving up for a new car. Looking for one with a steering wheel in the back?" he said suddenly, casually.

Token froze mid-swipe and looked up at him, staring. "How did _you_ know about that?"

Cartman snorted. "How do you think?"

He just kept staring. Then he said, "_You_ drove her home? _You?_"

"Yeah, so?" Cartman demanded.

Token's eye narrowed a little. "She told me..." he trailed off, stood up, stuffed the soaked towel in the front pocket of his apron, collected the check from table eleven, and returned to the kitchen once again. Just as he was dumping the towel in the sink, Cartman's order was called up. Unfortunately, it wasn't as neatly stackable as bread, so he grabbed Esther to lend him a hand.

It just figured that Cartman had ordered the three hottest things on the menu. Even rushing, he couldn't get them to the table without burning his fingers a little. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Esther blowing on her hand after setting down the curry and hurrying away. Token turned away, wanting to duck his hands in the dishwater.

If only he were so lucky.

"EY!" Cartman barked. "What the hell is this?"

Token sighed, his shoulders slumped, and he turned back around. "A Hindu burger, an order of mozzarella stir fry, and a serving of coconut-curry. What's _wrong_ with it?"

"God, where do I _start?_ The curry's too cold-"

"Too _cold?_" Token cried.

"The stir fry's all burnt and crappy-"

"It is not!"

"And I didn't even order a Hindu burger!"

"Yes you did!"

"Hey, don't tell me what I ordered, black asshole! The customer is always right, and I want an ostrich burger _right now_."

Token growled a little and made the trip to the kitchen once again, asking the cooks for an ostrich burger - and to make it speedy, for the love of God. When he came back out with it, he noticed with extreme displeasure that Cartman had already polished off his Hindu burger, and was currently scarfing down his fried cheese.

"Here," he said, his lip curling a little, putting the burger down.

Cartman just snorted.

"_Ex_-cuse me," said a voice. Token looked at the family at table twelve. The father was giving him a very irate look. "_When_ where you planning on bringing us our receipt? We would _like_ to leave."

Token sucked in a breath. He'd been so caught up in catering to Cartman, he'd completely forgotten about his other table.

"Of course, I'll go get it right now," he said, speeding to the kitchen and back again. The father ripped the receipt out of his hand, gave him a very annoyed look, and then he and his family got up and left. Token hung back until they were gone, then he started moving the salt shakers and napkin dispenser off so that he could wipe it off for the next customers.

"So," Cartman drawled, and Token grit his teeth and scrubbed harder harder at a spot on the table cloth. "Speaking of your cars... you live all the way out in rich-ass Cherry Creek. So do you drive Wendy to your house, or do you make her take the bus? What, do you make her _pay_ to visit you? Or do you just give her a bus pass on Christmas and her birthday? What do ya say? 'I could afford diamonds, but I know the best gift is really myself, so here's a bus pass'," he said in a fairly good imitation of Token's voice. "Classy."

Token straightened and scowled at him. Cartman scowled back. Their glaring match ended when Cartman snapped, "God, do you make _every_ table wait for their check?"

Cartman and Kenny watched and Token stormed off to the kitchens one final time. Smirking, Cartman leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms as if he were immensely proud of himself.

Kenny looked at him, chewing thoughtfully, then he reached for glass and drained it, swallowing.

"Cartman, _why_ are you harassing Token?"

"Kenny, God damn it, I told you to stop asking questions. Just eat your bread and shut up."

"No, seriously, man," Kenny said, frowning at him and drumming his fingers against the table. "You're usually just an asshole to the people in your general vicinity. I've never seen you actively pursue someone unless they've seriously pissed you off - 'cept Kyle, but you say he pisses you off just by existing, so..."

Cartman glared.

"I've noticed that you've been acting kinda funny since Tuesday morning. Did something happen Monday after school?"

"_No_," Cartman said forcefully. Too forcefully. Kenny's frown deepened.

"Those sleeping pills you made me pick up - I saw you lurking around Middle Park's water cooler before the game. You drugged them, right? That's really the only way our football team could've beaten Middle Park. But why'd you want us to win? You don't give a crap about football."

Cartman glared. "Shut up, Kenny."

"And then you walked all the way back to your house to borrow that sweet car your mom's boyfriend has instead of driving that hunk of junk you usually drive... and you only arrived as everyone else in the party was leaving... I mean, it's like all you wanted to do was give Wendy a ride home-" Kenny broke off in sudden surprise. His eyes had slowly widened while he spoke, and now he stared at Cartman.

"Eric," he said, which is what he only called him when he was being entirely serious. "Oh, man, you _can't like_-?"

"Shut up, Kenny," Cartman growled. "Shut up _right now_, or sweet Jesus I _swear_ I will chop off your balls with this butter knife," he said, the blunt utensil poised in his hand.

Kenny shut up.

--

"_Why?_ God, of all the restaurants, of all the times, why did he have to come into mine while _I_ was working? Of all the tables, why did he have to sit at the one _I_ was waiting on?"

"Um, Token?" Esther interrupted Token's quiet rant. He was leaning against the wall, by the door, in a position that none of the customers could see.

"What?" he asked irritably. She ran a hand over the back of her head, through her hair.

"I... couldn't help but over hear, and, well... Kenny came in, before they sat down, and asked me which tables you were working, and I told him... I'm... sorry?..."

Token stared at her for a moment, then mumbled "You don't need to apologize," when he'd finally recollected his thoughts. SHe left as one of her orders were called up, and he frowned down at his feet.

So, it wasn't an unfortunate coincidence - Cartman had targeted him deliberately. But... why? He wasn't a Jew, he wasn't a hippie, he wasn't a ginger, and he hadn't stolen $16.12 from him. So what had he done to piss him off?

Token got back just in time to see Kenny empty the plate of after-dinner mints into his pocket on their way out.

They didn't leave a tip. Naturally.

--

TBC


	8. Gayer Than Castro Street

D00d, Manbearpig! God that was great. Ya'know the only reason they couldn't find him was because he was up in his and Scuzzlebutt's love nest. Sadly, there's only one more episode left in the run. Excuse me while I wipe away my emo tears.

So this is probably the chapter most of you have been waiting for: the beginning of the slash. And, ya'know, when it rains it pours. It will be fairly abundant from here on in. All I'll say on the subject is that I'm seriously looking forward to the Al/Slave scene. Serial.

--

--

--

When Stan came out for lunch on the following Monday, he saw Kyle and Kenny deep in conversation. Kyle got steadily angrier until he stood up with an abrupt, outraged cry, and stormed off. Stan approached the table, bemused, and Kenny gave him a vague greeting as he sat down.

"What was that about?"

"Oh, Kyle just asked me if I'd seen Red during the party Thursday." Kenny shook his head. "Poor guy. I thought he already knew."

Stan's brow furrowed in confusion as he took a bite of his pizza. He swallowed, looking around the quad.

"Where's Cartman?"

"Journalism-"

"_With Wendy_, right?" When Kenny nodded he scowled. "God. I thought he was just doing this - warming up to Wendy, I mean - to be an asshole and get back at me the way he got back at Kyle with that article, but-"

"He actually _likes_ her." Kenny considered commenting that the article had (quite obviously, anyone with a brain should have been able to figure that one out) been targeted at Kyle _and_ him, and as far as Cartman was concerned he'd repaid them for screwing up his last day of vacation, but he supposed it would go right over Stan's head. Stan didn't take offense the way Kyle did.

"I know!" Stan snarled and glared down at his tray. He glanced back up at Kenny when his curiosity finally got to him. He knew Kenny was Cartman's "best friend," but he found it highly unlikely that Cartman would actually do something like _talk_ about his _feelings_. That was the sort of thing he always ripped on Stan for.

"How do you know, anyway?"

"It's fucking _obvious_, man. If Cartman had only joined the paper to get back at you and Kyle, he would have dropped out after he ran that article. He's not one for extra work, especially something as gay as the school paper. Anyway... you didn't see the way he looked at Token." He finished off his milk and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

"He doesn't talk to me about this stuff. But if he did, man... I'd tell him to forget it. And _not_ because you had a thing for her eight years ago," he added quickly. "You really fucking need to get over that, it's not healthy and it's pissing Kyle off. I'd tell him because I know from personal experience. Falling in love is the worst thing that ever happened to me."

Stan gave him a disbelieving look. This was the first he'd heard anything about Kenny genuinely liking someone, let alone loving them. His surprise was only surpassed by his sardonic humor that, out of all the shit he'd gone through, Kenny considered _love_ the worst.

"Dude," he finally said, when he'd collected his thoughts enough to reply, "you sound like those goth kids."

"Oh hell no, those assholes piss me off," Kenny said blandly. "Henrietta gives nice hand jobs, though."

Stan stared at him. Kenny was a pervert, but he actually got very little action aside from his magazines. There were very few girls that went for the scruffy, malnourished look, and the ones who did were ultimately turned off by his topics of conversation. That only left the sluttiest girls, or the ones that wanted to be contrary. Like Henrietta.

"... Man, she's nearly as fat as _Cartman_."

"I know," Kenny said. "Bigger tits."

Stan suppressed a groan. "So who is it?"

"Hmm?"

"Who's this chick you're in love with?"

"Oh," Kenny said, digging into his pudding. "Amelia Kuduk."

"_Who?_"

"You may know her better at the local mortician."

Stan stared. "The mortician."

"That's right."

"You're in love with the mortician."

"That's right."

"The same person that cuts you open and drains out all your blood and pumps you full of embalming fluid and writes your autopsy report every other week."

"That's right."

"Isn't she, like, forty?"

"She is _the woman that never ages_."

Stan stared at him a while longer. Then he said, "Dude, that's pretty fucked up."

--

"CRAIG!"

The aforementioned boy had scarcely had a chance to turn around before Kyle slugged him. Craig, having a fairly strong build, was not knocked over by the blow, powered though it was with Kyle's righteous fury. The punch surprised him enough, however, that he bit his tongue. He wiped his mouth, then sucked on the side of his mouth, and then he spat out some blood. Kevin, Token, and Clyde gaped at them. After all, it isn't ever day a crazy, bespectacled Jew runs up and punches a friend in the jaw.

"Well," Craig said, smirking, "I guess you found out."

"You _motherfucker_."

"I'm not so desperate I'd go after _your_ mother," he said, his smirk stretching. Kyle bristled. Behind them, Kevin snickered.

"_Everyone_ knows Red is my girlfriend, asshole. What the fuck do you think you're doing!"

"Well I think it's pretty obvious you can't fulfill her needs," Craig said. His smirk looked like it was threatening to fall of his face.

"What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean!"

Snickering lightly, Craig reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and waved it under Kyle's nose. He went cross-eyed for a moment, and then he scowled at the newspaper article that had been making his life hell for the past three and a half weeks.

He was _so fucking sick_ of that article. It made him envy Stan - Stan, who always paid attention when other people were being stupid but always seemed to gloss over his own stupidity, so that he'd actually been able to look Kyle in the face and said with all seriousness that he was surprised the article was 'all Cartman was going to do.'

'_All._' Because Stan was so caught up in football and Wendy and keeping his grades up that he'd somehow completely missed the way girls stood in clusters and read the article and giggled at them, or the way most of the guys in school had starting giving them a wide berth in the locker room. It had somehow completely escaped his notice that the head of their school's Gay/Straight Alliance was hounding them to come to a meeting, and that graffiti that specifically targeted them was starting to show up in the bathrooms.

Yes, the article was 'all Cartman was going to do,' because that's all Cartman had _needed_ to do. Cartman had completely fucked over his life with that stupid thing, and now his girlfriend had snuck upstairs with Craig because she'd been convinced he was treating Stan to his own personal victory after that stupid party.

"Where did you get that?" Kyle demanded, looking up from the article to Craig, who gave him a smug look.

"Red was carrying it around," he replied.

Kyle just glared. He considered arguing with Craig further, but the end of lunch bell was about to ring, and anyway, it sounded like an exercise in futility.

So Kyle punched him again, took the article, and went to class.

--

Kyle stewed silently for the rest of the school day. When the last bell finally rang, he had a desperate need to vent. And because he couldn't go to Stan and he'd never go to Cartman, he found himself on the McCormick's front step, ringing the door bell.

He'd rang it about four times before he realized it was broken. Then he knocked.

The door swung open and Kyle stepped back in both surprise and concern for his own personal safety. The door looked dangerously close to breaking right out of the frame.

"Oh, you're Kenny's cute little friend."

Kyle frowned up at Kevin, Kenny's older brother. Stan was lucky; Shelly had, at long last, left for college, so he didn't have to put up with an older sibling anymore. Kevin, however, seemed to have neither the money nor the drive to leave his parent's house, instead preferring to hang around town and ogle his younger brother's friends.

Kyle, who had already heard enough cracks about his sexuality to last a lifetime, glared. "Is Kenny home?"

"Forget about Kenny. I could show a much better time-"

"Kenny. Is he here?"

Kevin sighed and looked skyward. "Yes."

Silence.

"So are you going to let me in?" Kyle demanded irritably.

Kevin smirked at him and slid his arm up the door frame so that their was a gap between his body and the frame. Kyle glared at him for a while, but when he failed to develop the ability to move people with his mind, he slid past Kevin into the house. Kyle turned around quickly once he got inside and caught Kevin checking out his ass. He scowled at him and crossed his arms, and Kevin laughed uproariously, gave him a generous wink, and left the house.

It was at about this time that Kyle, who'd been walking backwards, tripped over Kenny's little sister.

"Sorry," he said and offered her his hand to help her back up. Rather than accepting it, she pulled herself up his leg. And then she stayed there and gave him a dazzling smile. Squeezed.

"That's _quite_ all right," she purred. "What can I do for you? Or to you?"

"Kenny," Kyle said, panicking a little, because the situation was rather alarming - she wasn't even _thirteen_ yet.

She pouted and removed his hands. "It's not _fair_," she said, stomping her foot. "Kenny's not even _gay_, why do all the hot guys that come here want to get into his room?"

While Kyle couldn't speak for Stan or Cartman - and, Cartman? Hot? That was enough to short out his brain - _he_ wanted to get into Kenny's room so that he could escape his creepy siblings. "So Kenny's in his room, then?" he asked hopefully, already edging away from her.

"Yeah," she said with a tragic sigh. "Knock first, though, he's probably jacking it."

"Thanks for the warning," he said, wondering if the McCormicks would mind terribly if he threw up in their hall. He made his way to Kenny's room and, deciding to preserve what remained of his sanity, knocked.

"Yeah!" Kenny hollered. "Come in!" Kyle pushed the door open and found him stretched out on his bed, flipping through a magazine. Thankfully, it was one on monster trucks.

"Hmm?" he said, looking up. "Oh, hey, man." He sat up and chucked his magazine behind him.

"Dude, your twenty-year-old brother and twelve-year-old sister _both_ just hit on me."

Kenny shrugged. "Well, if you don't want to be traumatized, you shouldn't come over." He glanced at him. "Why'd you come over, anyway?"

Kyle came in and leaned against the door, scowling at the floor. "I have had the worst fucking day... No, actually, this entire month has sucked major ass."

"_Ah_," Kenny said, nodding sagely. "Want a beer?"

Kyle hesitated before he answered, looking at the door. Kenny snorted.

"Don't worry; Kevin already left the house and my _twelve-year-old sister_ doesn't have the finesse to rape a guy while he's in a drunken stupor. Besides, one beer shouldn't be enough to get drunk, even for a lightweight like you."

"I'm not a lightweight," Kyle snapped. And, "All right, then."

Kenny got up to retrieve it and Kyle looked around his room for a while before moving and sitting on the edge of Kenny's bed.

And promptly breaking it.

Kyle yelped and jumped back up to his feet. One entire corner of Kenny's bed was now sagging toward the floor, and he looked at it mournfully. Some friend he was - Kenny hardly had anything, and then he comes along and recklessly destroys the things he _does_ have.

Kenny reentered the room and Kyle turned around guiltily. "I just _sat down_."

Kenny gave him a confused look until he noticed the bed. "Oh, that? Man, don't worry about it. It breaks all the time."

"It does?"

He nodded and chucked the beer at him; Kyle caught it, and now that Kenny's hands were free he crouched down by the bed and hauled the corner back up until it was level with the other three. "See, the way the bed's put together, you just notch it back into the bed post," he explained, and with a little difficulty, did just that.

"Well, how do you keep it from collapsing while you're asleep?" Kyle asked, frowning.

"Easy. I just don't sleep on that side of the bed."

"Ah," Kyle said, opening his can and taking a long sip.

"So you went to - er - talk to Craig?" Kenny prodded gently. Kyle made a face.

"God, Kenny, I'm just... so fucking sick of everyone and their mother acting like I'm gay for Stan. Even _you_ think I am," he added suddenly, glaring.

"Hey, don't turn on me," Kenny said, not denying it. "You guys have, what, _two_ fights throughout elementary and middle school, and then last summer rolled around and you couldn't spend two days without getting into a fist fight. All I'm saying is it's a little suspicious when two guys who get along so well suddenly feel the constant need to roll around in the grass and claw at each other."

"It's not funny, Kenny," Kyle snapped.

"I didn't say it was."

"This entire thing - it's _not funny_. I'm tired of everyone treating it like some wonderful joke."

"So you'd rather they treat it seriously?"

"Fuck you, Kenny. Cartman went really low, you know? And for what? Because he didn't get to go to an amusement park? It's not like I crashed my dad's car to _spite_ him. My parents gave me such shit for that, too; they even took away my license."

"Do'ya think you're so pissed because Cartman hit a little too close to the mark?"

"_Fuck you_, Kenny. I'm just God damn tired of how incredibly stupid this town is. I mean, I would expect the jocks and the cheerleaders and the freshmen to fall for some cut-and-paste editing job, but _everyone_ thinks this stupid picture is real." He wiped it out of his back pocket and held it out in front of him by a corner, pinching it between his thumb and index finger, and glared. "I lost my _girlfriend_ because of that tubby asshole."

Kenny was silent while Kyle took another sip of his beer. Then he said, "Why are you carrying a copy around with you?"

"It's not-" Kyle glared. "It's not anything _weird_, asshole. I only have it with me because I took it from Craig and forgot to throw it out."

"Have you ever actually _looked_ at that picture?"

"_NO_," Kyle said. "God, why would I want to? And why," he added, "were _you_ looking at it?"

"It was impossible to avoid looking at it, man, it was plastered all over school for more than a week."

"What's your point?" Kyle said shortly. Kenny ran his tongue over his teeth, mulling over his answer.

"My brother's gay," Kenny said, as if that explained everything. Kyle stared at him until he elaborated. "And he's an inconsiderate ass, so he leaves his tapes in the VCR all the time. Sufficient to say, I've been exposed to my fair share of gay porn. You can tell when it looks real and when it looks fake. And _that_," he said, inclining his head toward paper Kyle was holding, "... looks pretty real, man."

Kyle snorted and unfolded the paper, looking down at it while he spoke. "That is the fucking stupidest thing I've ever heard-"

Kyle stopped talking abruptly. He stared down at the newspaper in his hands, really _looking_ at the well-doctored photo for the first time, and then he inhaled sharply.

"Fuck. _Fuck._" He sat down on the edge of the bed, which immediately collapsed under his weight again. Kyle didn't even seem to notice. He was silent for a while, placing the fingertips of his right hand against his forehead and leaning into them, holding the paper in his left hand and staring down at it. He smirked, then he let out a short snort of a laugh. Then he said, "I can't believe I've been this oblivious."

And Kenny could only say, "I told you so."

"God," he muttered, "I should have _known_. I mean, listening to Stan bitch about Wendy was annoying, sure, but I should have realized when it pissed me off the way it did..." Kyle dropped his hand and leaned back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling fan.

"God," he whispered again, "what am I going to _do?_"

"Beats me." Kyle groaned and fisted his hair, and Kenny patted him on the shoulder. "Hey, man, don't beat yourself up. It was sort of inevitable, in this town. I mean, ya'know how Springfield is the country's fattest town? Well, South Park is the gayest. Between the time-travel protest groups and the metro pride parades, we even beat out Castro street."

Kyle looked back down at the article. "It _does_ look real," he admitted, muttering. "Man, this sucks ass."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," Kenny said, shrugging. "Falling in love's the worst thing that can happen to a guy."

--

TBC


	9. Faith Plus 1

So, I'm one of those people (or maybe I'm the only one?) that thinks Gerald would come down harder on Kyle for being gay than Sheila would.

--

--

--

Kyle picked at his salad, but he didn't eat it. He was too preoccupied with watching Stan, who was eating a piece of pizza and studying for his English test. He was so engrossed in his book that the pizza keeping missing his mouth. He was also so engrossed in his book that he didn't notice the fact that his best friend was staring at him.

Kyle was currently convinced that his life couldn't get any worse. If it were to suddenly burst out into a comedically timed rain shower, it _still_ wouldn't be worse than it was right now. He was head-over-fucking-heels in love with his best friend, a fact he'd been blissfully ignorant of until yesterday afternoon. No, that wasn't right. Ignorance wasn't bliss. Ignorance was fucking nirvana. Ignorance was a world without _Cartman_.

He was so envious of Stan at the moment. Kyle wished _his_ biggest concern was a test on a fruity book he hadn't read. He even envied Kenny, who was currently enthusiastically telling the other three his elaborate plan to get Lexus to sleep with him. Kyle wished _he_ had Kenny's unshakable desire to sleep with women. It just wasn't fair.

(Kyle wasn't envious of Cartman. He was miserable, not crazy.)

"Kyle, what?" Stan asked, frowning. He'd glanced up briefly from his book, noticing Kyle's stare. "Do I have something on my face?"

_Tell him_, his brain commanded. _Get it out in the open. It's not that big of a deal. Kenny already knows. Cartman's already done the worst he could with the information_.

"Yeah," Kyle said instead, because Stan did have a bit of missed-mouth pizza still attached to his cheek. Stan wiped his face and Kyle looked away because he no longer had a convenient excuse not to.

_You fucking coward, Broflovski_, his brain grumbled.

Kenny was giving him sympathetic looks, which was the last thing he wanted right now. He looked up at the sky instead. "Hey, Stan?"

"Mm-hm?"

_Tell him!_ his brain urged.

"You're, um, working today, right?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. I'll, uh. Stop by."

_That's it_, his brain huffed. _I'm out of here_. It made a valiant effort to leave in search of a head that wasn't stuck in Teenage Angst mode, but found it was tethered. _This is cruel and unusual punishment! All right, I'm sick and tired of this abuse! I'm striking! When you want to think about something besides your Impossible Oppressed Love™, you let me know!_

--

Token was not a jealous man, but he wasn't a stupid one, either. He'd been seated next to Cartman at that flag debate, all those years ago; he'd had a front row view of that kiss. He'd seen tongue, and he'd seen Cartman's victory dance afterward. And now the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him that Cartman had made sure he was alone with Wendy while they researched for the debate, keeping the rest of the team out of the library by sending them on stupid assignments like finding out what Stan had set on fire.

Cartman was a dirty, scheming girlfriend-stealing asshole then and he was one now, but Token wasn't like Stan, who ignored things until they were frenching in front of the entire school. He went to find Wendy, and did, eating lunch with Bebe. Token approached them from behind and leaned down to say in her ear, "You lied to me."

Bebe broke off mid-discussion of some boy's finer attributes. She glanced up at Token, then she glanced back to her best friend, and then she laughed nervously, collected her things, and fled the scene.

Wendy turned around and gave him a cold look. "Excuse me?"

Token straightened, employing every inch of his taller-than-average height. "I said, you lied to me."

"I heard what you said," Wendy replied icily. "And, I repeat: _Excuse_ me?"

He crossed his arms and said, "You told me a friend drove you home from that party."

"So?"

"So since when is _Eric Cartman_ a friend?" he demanded.

"Since... recently!" she snapped.

"Were you ever going to tell me you got a ride from him?" he continued with his interrogation.

"It wasn't important! How is it your business, anyway?"

"It's my business if my girlfriend starts cozying up to other guys, Wendy!"

"I am not _cozying up to Cartman_," she snarled. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Besides, he's been nicer to me lately than _you_ have," she accused.

"Cartman is not nicer than _anyone_, Wendy. Even Craig's nicer than him, and Craig's a prick."

Wendy glared and crossed her arms. Token had a point, but it was against her basic nature to concede. Instead, she switched battle tactics. "So what did you expect me to do, wait in the snow for you to sober up?" she asked sarcastically. "I didn't even _want_ to go to that party and-"

"Hey!" Token barked. "That is _not fair_. You _never_ said you didn't want to go. You can't bite my head because I failed to develop ESP."

"I shouldn't have had to tell you!" Wendy insisted. "It should have been obvious!"

"Well it wasn't!"

"Yes it was! _Anybody_ could have been able to tell you I wasn't enjoying myself; _Kenny_ could tell I wasn't enjoying myself! You weren't paying any attention to me!"

"How am I supposed to pay attention to you when you wander off and never come back!"

"That's a glaring sign that a girl _isn't enjoying herself_, Token!"

"Ugh," Token said, rubbing his forehead. He'd realized he'd fallen for his girlfriend's old bait-and-switch technique, and that she'd managed to get him completely off the topic he'd wanted to discuss. This was precisely way he tried to avoid getting into fights with Wendy. He wasn't passive enough to roll over and admit defeat, but he wasn't nasty enough to argue the way she really _wanted_ to. "I don't want you spending time with Cartman, Wendy."

"Well that's too damn bad," Wendy said, glaring. "He's part of the paper, so I'm _going_ to spend time with him."

Token made an exasperated noise and ran his hand through his hair, tugging at it when his hand made it to the base of his skull. "Would you really rather be around that fat, racist, manipulative prick than your own boyfriend?" He gave her a pleading look, and Wendy just... ran out of steam. She frowned and looked down at her feet. Why the hell _was_ she fighting over Cartman, anyway? It was just three weeks ago that he'd tricked her into damaging her paper's reputation and nearly gotten her expelled. If anyone else had done something like that, she would have destroyed everything they loved.

Of course, no one but Cartman would have been _able_ to do something like that.

"I... No, Token, that's not it."

"Wendy, I don't _get_ it. Then why _are_ you?"

Wendy couldn't answer - or rather, she really didn't want too. Because what sort of girlfriend told their boyfriend of seven years that she'd rather work on the school newspaper than be with them? For that matter, what sort of girlfriend even _felt_ that way? She sighed and looked down at her hands, and Token kept talking.

"We haven't really spent any time together since summer ended."

"You canceled our last date," she said swiftly.

"That _wasn't_ my fault! It's not like I had _fun_ catering to that fatass!"

"... 'Fatass'?" she repeated, giving him a bemused look before her eyebrows shot up in realization. "_Cartman?_"

"How do you think I found out he gave you a ride home?" Token demanded. "God, he was... _impossible_. Worse than all the bad customers I've ever had put together."

Wendy frowned inwardly, digesting this information. So that was where Cartman had rushed off to. Of course, she wasn't about to let Token know it was her fault he'd had to put up with Cartman's abuse. It did make her feel a bit guilty, though.

"I... I can skip the newspaper today," she offered. "We could go to the mall after school."

Token gave her a shocked expression, and then he beamed. He thought... yes, he was _sure_ he'd just won an argument. In all his years of dating Wendy, that had never happened. The most he'd ever managed was a draw.

"All right," he said, still beaming. "Wait for me outside biology."

--

_My life is an endless pit of misery_, Kyle decided, standing in front of the entrance to J-mart.

Of course, Kyle had felt this way many times before in the course of his childhood. Usually when good things happened to Cartman or when he was diagnosed with yet _another_ humorously unusual disease. But this - falling in love with Stan, and not even _realizing_ it - this had to take the cake.

Kyle sighed, looking down and scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk. He'd been standing there for nearly ten minutes, trying to work up the courage to go inside. He smirked a little at himself and muttered out loud, "God, I am such a fucking coward..." Taking a deep breath, he reached his hand out so that it would be close enough to activate the automatic doors.

Before he'd even half-raised it, however, they swept open and a bitter old man on a wheelchair came speeding out. He spotted Kyle and his lip curled.

"Out of the way, boy! Don't think I won't run you over! You can still work for my Social Security with tire tracks!"

Kyle stepped out of the way speedily, and the man drove past. Kyle stared after him, and then through the open doors, into the depths of J-mart. He took another breath, took a determined step forward, then took several hasty steps backward, turned around, buried his hands in his pockets, bowed his head, and walked away.

_SUCH a fucking coward..._

What he needed right then was some good, solid advice. Some that didn't come from a sexually frustrated boy with the most fucked up siblings in the history of siblings who died periodically. Not that Kyle wasn't thankful that he had Kenny around to help him out, but he sort of had a twisted perception of reality.

It was situations like this that really made him miss Chef. It wasn't just the crappy food they'd gotten from then on, or the stupidity they'd had to tolerate from Mr. Derp. Chef was the only adult in town who actually _acted_ like an adult should act.

Kyle actually envied Kenny's chronic deaths in that respect - he still got to see Chef. Or at least, Kyle assumed so. Kenny had never said whether he saw Chef or not, but he _had_ told them all once, but when they were eight and still found his dying an interesting event, that there weren't any black people in heaven.

So who did that leave? His parents? Kyle snorted at the very thought, then burst out laughing. He held his knees as he leaned over, hysterical, and a mother pulled her child to the other side of the street, giving him a wide-eyed, terrified look. Yeah, right. _His_ parents? His mother would start a Gay Jew Awareness Day, or something, and start throwing as much kosher man meat at him as she could find. And his father... well, his father had freaked out when he'd just been _metrosexual_ for a day, and he'd hit the roof when Mrs. Garrison got her sex change. What would he do if he found out his oldest son wanted to bone his male best friend?

Kyle came to an abrupt stop and groaned loudly, burying his face in his hands. The other pedestrians began crossing the street as well. God, it was worse than he thought. He _did_ want to bone Stan. He couldn't just write this off as growing-so-close-that-gender-doesn't-matter, he was _attracted_ to Stan. And Stan was attractive. He had to be, to still be able to get girls even with his history of puking on them.

Stan would probably throw up if he knew how he felt, Kyle reflected sadly. It would probably turn his stomach. That guy had the worst gag reflex he'd ever seen.

... Which, of course, sent his thoughts off in another, wholly inappropriate direction. Kyle groaned again and resumed his aimless walk. Why was there a never a telephone pole or stop sign to beat himself senseless on when he needed? A coma would improve his situation immensely. Nothing permanent, maybe something to just put him out until Stan started loosing his hair and getting fat so that Kyle could stop lusting after him.

Kyle was extremely distressed to find the idea of a bald, beer-gut Stan didn't turn him off in the least. "I hate you," he informed his crotch. "Hate you so bad." He continued to walk along while alternately pleading with and cursing it.

A car pulled up beside him and he looked up. It was Barbrady, his elbow hanging out of the window, peering at him through his tinted glasses.

"What?" Kyle asked, a touch irritably. The last time he'd seen Barbrady, he'd refused to accept a bribe to tell his parents one of Mephisto's escaped pets had sat it and crushed it under its four asses rather than the truth, which was that their son had plowed it into a tree. Cartman could have used his manipulation skills to get Barbrady to do it, but Cartman hadn't been feeling to charitable toward him at that particular moment, so his parents had taken away his license and he'd been without a car for the past five-and-a-half weeks.

"We were getting reports of a crazy man walking around town and shouting 'You can't do this to me!' at his... uh... fireman," Barbrady drawled. Kyle frowned at him.

"Officer Barbrady, what do you do if you're pathetically in love with your best friend and the only people who can help you are dead at the moment?"

Barbrady stared at him for a while. Then he put his foot on the gas and drove away without answering. Kyle glared at his bumper sticker (_South Park Elementary Honor Roll_) as he drove off. He sighed and dug his hands into his pockets. There really was no one who could help. Even the local law enforcement had failed him.

Kyle finally looked at one of the street signs and realized just how far he'd wandered from J-mart. He was in the more 'liberal' part of town now - the part with the Unplanned Parenthood and all those crappy, overpriced health food stores and the hippies. Cartman had tried to blow the area up multiple times, to no avail.

He'd wandered into the residential part, and was now standing on the sidewalk in front of an entirely purple house. Kyle blinked at it a few times, and then he grinned and praised his subconscious. He, desperate for advice, had just wandered to the doorstep of Big Gay Al and Mr. Slave.

Kyle hopped up the front steps and rang the doorbell. He only had to wait a moment before Big Gay Al opened it, looking the same he always had, sans a little hair and plus a little weight.

"Hello," he said politely, then paused. Kyle realized he was waiting for him to tell him who he was. He supposed it was no wonder he didn't recognize him - his parents had made him go to Jew Scouts instead of Mountain Scouts with his friends, so he hadn't had him as a scout leader, and Stan was the only one with a gay pet.

"I'm Kyle Broflovski," he explained, and when Al continued to give him a blank look, he said, "Stan Marsh's friend."

"Oh, of course!" Big Gay Al said, recognition dawning on his face. "You boys helped get gay marriage legal. How is little Stanley?"

"Erm, actually, I was hoping I could discuss something about Stan with you," Kyle said, rubbing his arm. "Y'see-"

"Well come inside, silly goose!" Big Gay Al interrupted. "I'm not going to bar guests from entry!"

The next thing Kyle knew he was seated on a couch (pink) in an impeccably decorated sitting room, eating a banana nut muffin and drinking jasmine tea. Out of a china cup. Kyle really didn't want to buy into stereotypes, being apparently gay himself, but God _damn_.

"Er," Kyle said, because he really didn't know how to dive into this subject. Sure, he'd admitted it to Kenny, but Kenny had already known. Admitting he was gay to someone else - even a big, gay man - was a touch more difficult. He decided to loosen himself up with some small talk first.

"So, how are you?"

"Oh, _super_," Big Gay Al said with heavy sarcasm. Kyle blinked.

"Um - where's Mr. Slave?"

"Slave has moved out," Al said stiffly. Kyle gaped at him.

"What? _Why?_"

"Because, I run an animal sanctuary. These poor, forlorn gay animals come to my home expecting refuge, not becoming the victims of gerbilling!"

"Um," Kyle said, and stared at him. "Um. Am I to understand Mr. Slave put another animal up his ass?"

"Four times!" Big Gay Al cried. "I put up with so much from that man, but my God, everyone has a limit."

"So," Kyle said. "So, even if two guys get over all those issues with their gender, their relationship could still fail," Kyle said miserably.

"Well, of course," Big Gay Al said, giving him a bemused look.

Kyle set his tea down and leaned forward in his seat, sliding his fingers up his forehead and into his hair, pressing the bottoms of his palms against his eyes. He groaned. "So, God, what's the _point?_"

"Kyle?" Big Gay Al questioned. "Oh, I've gone on and ranted about my problems. I'm sorry. Why was it that you wanted to talk to me about Stanley, Kyle?"

"I love him," Kyle said, his voice muffled, hiding behind his hands.

"I see," Big Gay Al said slowly.

"And, God, I was just trying to figure out how to tell him without getting barfed on, but maybe I just _shouldn't_ tell him. Because this could fuc-... ruin everything," he said, remembering he probably should keep his swearing to a minimum around adults. "So what's the _point?_"

"Kyle," Al said, frowning a little. "You ought to tell him."

"But what if he doesn't want to be around me anymore?" Kyle muttered miserably.

"What if he _does?_" Big Gay Al said. "_That's_ the point."

--

When Wendy came to meet Token outside Biology, he was grinning. He was grinning when they climbed into his car and drove to the mall, too. By the time they pulled into the parking lot, it had started to piss her off. She was abandoning her paper for the day to spend time with him - he didn't have to act so _smug_ about it.

Because Token's smirking had made her feel a little vindictive, she pulled him into the first clothing store she saw and tried on skirts for a good thirty minutes. Token sat outside the dressing room and dutifully told her everything she tried on looked 'fine.' He was even charitable enough to only check his watch when she couldn't see him do it. After half an hour had passed Wendy decided to knock it off - she'd never really been into clothes shopping, anyway. That was Bebe's thing. Token bought them orange smoothies and they sat on the edge of the stage at the plaza of the mall while they finished them off.

Token, Wendy reflected, really was a great guy. He was smart and he had morals and, hell, as Mercedes had so kindly pointed out, he was one of the hottest guys in their school. He was tall and he was a football star and he was rich. Girls would have been falling over themselves to steal him away from her, if Wendy hadn't made it perfectly clear what would happen to anyone who tried back in elementary school.

And sure, Token was a smartass, and all of his friends were dicks, but he put up with so much from her. Wendy knew she really should be grateful. Guys like Token didn't come along all that often.

Still... sometimes, Wendy really wished he _wouldn't_ just put up with her bouts of jealousy and incessant need to be right and in charge. Sometimes she just wished he would _argue_ with her. When he didn't - hell, when _no one_ did - it was just... well, just dull.

They window-shopped for a while, and then Token steered her into a record store. She wandered around while he searched for DVDA's newest CD, flipping through the used section absently. She found herself at the bargain bin and started leafing through it, smirking when she came across Russell Crowe's _Fighting 'Round The World_ soundtrack. She'd had a tremendous crush on Russell Crowe when she was a little girl, and had even talked her parents into letting her hang a poster of him up in the bathroom. The way he picked fights on his stupid show always kept her in stitches, while Bebe sat on the couch and rolled her eyes and said "It's not _that_ funny" and tried to change the channel.

Wendy flipped past it, and then she did a double-take when she saw the CD underneath it. She stared at a younger picture of Cartman, Token, and Butters, standing around aimlessly on a beach. She pulled it out and flipped it over, checking for a copyright date, thinking it must be a fake, or something.

But there was the copyright, underneath the label for Faith Records. It was an honest-to-God CD. Why didn't she remember this?

"Wendy, I'm ready to go," Token informed her, walking up behind her. "What's that?"

"Look!" she said, pushing it under his nose. Token's look of polite curiosity turned into one of disgust.

"Oh. That."

"Why didn't you ever tell me you made a CD?" she asked, pulling it back and reading it.

"Because I'd rather forget about the experience, okay?"

"What did you do?" Wendy pressed. "Sing? I know you gave up singing after-"

"No, I- ugh," Token said, placing a hand against his forehead. "Cartman sang. I played the bass."

"I didn't know you could play bass."

"I can't!" Token cried, exasperated. "At least, I shouldn't be able to! I've never had any lessons!"

"Wow," Wendy said, impressed.

Token just grumbled. "Wendy, come on. Put it back, let's go."

Wendy clutched it to her chest protectively. "I'm buying it."

"Wendy, _come on_-" Token said, starting to get irritable. "It's a crappy CD. There's a reason it's in the Dollar Bucket."

"I'm getting it," Wendy insisted stubbornly. "I want to hear you play bass."

"Fine!" Token said. He left the store and waited outside the door while she stood in line and paid for it, fuming all the while.

--

Stan frowned. He'd searched the entire store, but he hadn't found Kyle anywhere. His break was going to be over in a second and he hadn't seen him since lunch. When Kyle'd said he'd stop by, Stan had sort of expected him to drop in within the first twenty times and then hang out for the rest day, mocking customers and very nearly getting Stan fired. That's what Kyle always did whenever he promised to 'stop by,' which was more often than not. For someone who hated J-mart and the ilk with an intense fury, he sure did spend a lot of time there.

Stan sighed as he spotted the assistant manager bearing down on him. He returned to work before she had a chance to chew him out. It looked like it was just going to be another boring day at work, then.

He cleaned up a spill on aisle 14 - some stupid customer had broken a few bottles of wine, and as Stan was the only staff member working at the moment who didn't attend AA. Daniel offered to help him, but Stan ended up having to beam him over the back of the head with the mop handle to stop him from sucking the wine off the floor. Once he'd finished cleaning it up he returned to repricing the soup cans, which the assistant manager had told him needed to be marked down 50, every since that product-wide recall.

"You look about as happy as an emo who's been forced to go out into the sun," a cheerful voice commented behind him. Stan jumped a little, the gripped the edge of the shelf for hold as he turned around to look at Kyle, who was grinning at his jumpy behavior.

"Oh, shut up," Stan said, and then he grinned as well. "I was starting to think you wouldn't show up."

"Yeah," Kyle said slowly, shrugging. "You know how it is." He didn't elaborate, but after a moments hesitation he cleared his throat and took his hands out of his pockets. "Actually... I need to tell you something."

"Sure," Stan said. "What is it?"

Kyle looked at him, then he licked his lips and rubbed the back of his neck. "I... hm. I mean... Nothing. Uh. I mean. How's work been?" he forced out, then squeezed his eyes closed and seemed to berate himself. Stan lifted an eyebrow at him, but answered his question.

"Sucks, as usual. Well, not quite 'usual' - we had a homeless schizophrenic wander in."

Kyle blinked. "You did?"

"Yeah. I felt sorry for him, until he bit me in the leg and made a run for it. They couldn't catch him, so they had to take me to the hospital so I could get a rabies shot. It wouldn't have been so bad if I could have gone home afterward, but my assistant manager decided I was healthy enough to finish my shift. So now I've been hobbling around with a hobo bite."

"That's nice," Kyle said absently. Stan frowned at him. He didn't think Kyle had heard a word he'd said. He was a distinctive, preoccupied look on his face, and he was chewing on his bottom lip.

"Kyle, man, you okay?"

"Never better," Kyle said promptly, without any real sincerity behind his words. "Hey, Stan?"

"Yeah, what?"

"I think I - that is to say, I really... you know," he gestured feebly. Stan stared at him.

"Kyle, _what?_"

"Okay," Kyle said, taking a deep breath. "Okay. Um. You know that fucking article fatass put out?"

Stan sighed and rolled his eyes. "Dude, when are you going to get over that? Look, I know Cartman's an asshole, but it's been weeks. Let it go. It's not true, so it's all right, man."

"And," Kyle said, wetting his lips. "And... if it _was_ true... would _that_ be all right?"

Stan stared at him. Stan dropped a can of soup on his toe and didn't even seem to notice. He just kept staring.

Then he said, "Uh. I've got to, you know. Get back to work."

"Right," Kyle said miserably, while Stan all but ran away.

_You see what happens when I go on strike?_ Kyle's brain informed him smugly.

--

Token was sullen the entire ride home. When he pulled up to her house he didn't climb out of the car and walk her to her door, and he only gave her a brief wave before driving off again.

Wendy thought he was being very childish about the whole thing.

She hopped up the stairs to her room and closed the door behind herself, dropping her things on her bed and kicking off her shoes. Then she fished Faith + 1 out of her bag, flipped the case open, leaned across her bed, and popped it into her CD player.

Wendy got up to "I want to feel his salvation all over my face" before she burst into hysterics. She fell over onto her bed, clutching the case, her sides aching as she laughed. It was the funniest thing she'd heard since - well, since she'd heard Russell Crowe beat up Australians.

She was laughing so hard, she forgot to listen for the bass.

--

TBC


	10. Going Platinum

Wow, it broke 100 reviews! Thanks, you guys all rock.

I sort of think the last couple chapters were boring (Too much Stan/Kyle, not enough Cartman/Wendy. But it had to be taken care of so the plot could progress.), but I'm seriously looking forward to the ones to come. We're quickly approaching the climax of the story.

... "Christian Rock Hard" is one of my top-ten favorite episodes. I laugh so fucking hard every time Cartman starts singing.

--

--

--

"Ey, bitch, where the fuck were you yesterday?" was the way Wendy was greeted Wednesday after school.

She blinked and looked up from her computer screen, over to Cartman, who'd dropped into a seat next to her. She frowned at his swearing, and then she raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"Where were you?" he repeated rudely. "I guess I'd better get Kenny another parka, because hell must have frozen over. I thought this gay little paper was your lifeblood."

She continued to frown at him. "It's none of your business, but I spent the day with Token."

"That black asshole!" Cartman exclaimed. "_Why?_"

"Don't call him that!" she snarled. "And because he's my _boyfriend_, that's why!"

"So you were sating your interracial lusts while I was here slaving away to give the school its paper. For shame, Wendy. For _shame_."

Wendy laughed at him. "Yeah, right. You were _not_ working on the paper. You probably went home."

"You know," Cartman said in a superior tone, "one would think you'd have learned your lesson about running off to your boyfriend and leaving me with the newspaper."

Wendy's jaw dropped. He was right. _Even_ after he'd ran that article, she hadn't given the safety of the paper a second thought. _Why_ was she so stupidly trusting when it came to Cartman? He was the most untrustworthy person to ever live.

"Did you _do_ anything?" she demanded.

Cartman shrugged. "No," he said simply "You were right, I just went home. I wasn't about to stick around this faggy place if you weren't here."

Feeling reassured, Wendy returned to the computer screen. "Go get my green notebook from my backpack, would you?"

Cartman sent a hesitant look toward the backpack in question. "You don't have a pair of panties stuffed in there, do you?"

Wendy turned bright red immediately. "_NO!_" she cried, slamming her palm down on the desk and twisting around to glare at him, trying to mask her mortification with fury. "You... you _pervert!_"

"_I'm_ the pervert? _I'm_ not the one carrying underwear around with me!"

"Just do it!" she cried, thrusting a finger toward her backpack and wishing the earth would swallow her up then and there. Cartman did it, grumbling about demanding bitches whilst doing so. Wendy watched him like a hawk while he dug into her bag and pulled out the requested notebook, unearthing the Faith + 1 CD in the process. Cartman blinked at it, then the recognition dawned on his face and he pulled it out.

"Why the hell do you have this?"

"I brought it for Bebe to listen to," Wendy said briskly, taking her notebook from him and getting back to work. "I thought she'd enjoy it, since last Sunday she pointed out the crucified Jesus statue and said, 'Yum, man-stomach.'"

Cartman lifted an eyebrow. "You have some fucked up friends."

Wendy scowled and crossed her arms. "Bebe isn't weirder than your friends."

"Those assholes aren't my friends. They're my playthings."

She rolled her eyes and then said, "Uh - did you make a second CD?" If he had, she really had to get it. She'd listened to the debut album on repeat all last night.

"No," Cartman said, to her disappointment.

"Oh. Why not?"

"I totally kicked Token's ass. So that black asshole got all pissy and left the band."

"I told you to quit calling him that!" she snapped, her temper flaring up again.

"I'll quite calling him one when it quits being true!"

She glared at him and he glared back, and then he broke his gaze and looked back down at the CD.

"... We won a platinum album, you know," he said smugly, and Wendy gave him a scrutinizing look. He _was_ bragging, she realized. So, if Bebe had been right about that, what else was she right about?

"You did not," she said, brushing his boasts off. "Christian music doesn't go platinum, it goes Frankincense and Myrrh."

"How did you know that?" Cartman demanded.

"Everyone knows that," she said, to which Cartman let out a string of obscenities that led her to believe _he_ hadn't known that. Wendy bit her lip and looked at the CD in his hand, and then at him. "... It deserved it, you know."

"What was that, ho?"

She frowned, just a little. "The CD. It's... really good, you know. It deserved to go platinum."

"Of course it was really good, everything I do is amazing," Cartman said loftily, but he had a somewhat startled look on his face, as if he was not quite sure how to react to a compliment. Wendy bit her lip, and then she turned away quickly and went back to work, fighting the blush that was creeping back onto her face.

--

Stan sighed and dragged himself up his stairs. He fell against his door, groped for the handle, and stumbled into his bedroom. He didn't have the energy to make it to his bed, so he sat down heavily on the floor, leaning his back against the edge of his bed instead. He sighed again and placed a hand against his forehead. Today was the first day in a long time that he'd gotten the day off of work. Usually he'd spend this time with Kyle, but, well...

It had been more than a week since Kyle had cornered him in J-mart. He had regretted running away from him almost immediately, but by the time he'd worked up enough nerve to go back out, Kyle had left the store. Kyle was clearly pissed off at him - he wouldn't even meet his eyes when they passed in the hallways, and he'd taken to looking straight ahead in Spanish class, rather than mocking the teacher with Cartman and himself.

No, Kyle was really, really angry. He couldn't just pick up the phone and ask him to come over like nothing happened - Kyle held grudges like no one else, not even Cartman. He'd probably never forgive him, and Stan didn't much blame him.

Stan pulled his legs up and draped his arms over them, resting his temple against his knees. God, why did it have to be _Kyle?_ Why couldn't it have been Butters, or Craig, or, hell, even _Kenny?_ Why did it have to be the one guy that he _really_ didn't want to lose?

Life _sucked_. Life, it seemed, had been carefully engineered for the most suck-age possible. It was a great big Vacuum-o'-Suck.

Sparky was snuffling around his side, trying to work his nose between Stan's leg and abdomen. Stan sighed and uncurled himself, pushing Sparky away from his crotch. Even after eight years of ownership, Stan hadn't really been able to figure out if it was a dog thing, or a gay thing. Everyone thought he was a paranoid freak because of it, but Stan _swore_ that ever since he'd beat Sparky off in fourth grade, the dog had tried to pursue a more intimate relationship.

... Okay, so when he said it out it _did_ sound paranoid and freakish, but it was _true!_

Sparky made some more snuffling noises and plopped down next to him on the carpet. The dog was really starting to get on in the years - he was fat and he didn't move around much, and he hid under the bed whenever anyone broke into the house, like Mr. Jefferson or Cartman or Manbearpig. Sparky licked Stan on the cheek and Stan sighed, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his neck. Sparky may have been a fat, lazy coward that harbored an inter-species crush on him, but he was still a comforting pet.

Stan had had such a bad day Tuesday, too. First he'd failed his end-of-unit test on The Great Gatsby. Then he'd gotten bitten by a hobo and had to go to the hospital, which he never enjoyed under any circumstances, but it was particularly bad when they were giving you painful shots in the gut. And the doctors in this town were incompetent, so they'd missed his stomach and gotten him in the knee and elbow a few times. Then he'd actually had to _return_ to work and mark down soup that _should_ be poured in the gutter, what with the Super AIDS that had gotten mixed into the product, hence the recall.

And then the _one_ person that could have cheered him up instead decided to inform him he really wouldn't mind having 'illicit relations within the handicapped bathroom stall' as Cartman had so masterfully worded it.

Stan groaned and tightened his grip on Sparky's neck. There was no excuse for it. No matter how ridiculously, over-the-top horrible his day had been, he'd still had no right to turn his back on Kyle like that. Kyle was entirely justified in hating him.

And, God, it wasn't like he hadn't been blowing him off for the past five _months_. Ever since he'd gotten the job at J-mart he'd been ditching Kyle - Kenny and Cartman, too, but mostly Kyle. He'd actually been working the day Hunter S. Thompson got resurrected and tried to build a church. He had, in fact, missed out on anything even remotely supernatural during the summer because he'd been too busy working.

And he hated his job. He hated his assistant manager, he hated the customers, he hated getting bitten by hobos.

Stan had given every reason for why he wanted to work. He'd told his parents and friends that he wanted the money, that he wanted the experience, that he wanted something to slap on his college application rather than 'football player for a school that never wins a game, who only gets average grades.' But that was all bullshit, really. He'd taken the job because of one very simple reason: Kyle.

Specifically, he'd wanted to spend as little time around Kyle as possible, and he'd thought getting a demanding job at a store Kyle absolutely loathed would have accomplished that nicely. Not that he'd ever say this reason out loud, not even to Sparky.

It was just that... that _summer_. Last summer rolled around, and suddenly everything Kyle did pissed him off. Kyle didn't even do or say anything that he hadn't done or said for the past sixteen years. He was the same as ever, but for some reason, suddenly Stan found everything about him aggravating.

Like the way he'd slept in until two on Sunday, and then when Stan had tried to wake him up he'd mumbled into his pillow that he'd had the 'supreme pleasure of not being born into your freaky cult, so if I want to sleep in on Sunday, then I'll sleep in on Sunday, God damn it.' And then there was the way he'd bitched and moaned about the heat, like they weren't all hot too, and the way he'd taken to waltzing around town without a shirt.

It just... annoyed him. So he'd tackled him on his bed and they'd wrestled until Kyle was awake enough to realize Stan was wearing his shoes, and he'd kicked him in the gut and knocked him out of his bed onto his ass, complaining about dirt. And when Kyle wouldn't shut up about the weather he'd told him to take off his pants if he was so fucking hot, to which Kyle had replied with heavy sarcasm that he'd always wanted to spend his summer in a jail cell for indecent exposure. Brilliant idea, thanks Stan.

(Kenny had thought it was a brilliant idea. Reportedly, the inside for a jail cell was nice and cool, especially when you were bare-ass naked.)

And those were only two examples. In the first week of summer, Stan had gotten in more fights with Kyle than he had in the entire span of their friendship. Stan had thought that if maybe he didn't spend as much time with Kyle the situation would fix itself. It had only gotten worse, however, because now he missed Kyle whenever he wasn't around, and he wanted to pound his ass whenever he was.

Stan colored as he remembered Kyle's confession and groaned. He _didn't_ mean it like _that._

God. Life didn't just suck. It blew, too.

--

Stan hated him.

Stan hated him and it was his _own damn fault_ for not keeping his big fat mouth shut and growing up and marrying a dyke and pretending to be sterile to explain the absence of children and sneaking off to out-of-town gay bars on the weekends.

More than a week had passed since his confession, or as he liked to refer to it, The Day I Was Possessed By A Demon Of Gay Stupidity, and Stan hadn't so much as looked at him. Stan hadn't talked to him. Stan had been craftily avoiding being anywhere near him for over a _week_.

He could go hunt him down, but God, what was the point? Stan was fine with gay people unless it was his ass they were eyeing, apparently.

Kyle couldn't much blame him, he thought, as he glumly walked around the Kenny McCormick Memorial Town Square. At least he hadn't told anyone else, so no one was kicking his ass in the locker rooms. Not that anyone would really be able to. Kyle had spent the past sixteen years holding his own against Cartman, and Cartman was, to put it in the most polite terms, as big as a fucking house. Besides, everyone at school was well acquainted with what the principal kindly referred to as 'Cartman-triggered rage issues.' No, people would leave him alone if they knew. Simply avoid him. Like Stan was doing _right now_.

Kyle expelled a heavy breath and let his chest sag a little. Like he said, he couldn't blame Stan. He really should have expected this sort of reaction. And it wasn't so bad, really. He still had Kenny. Kenny was a nice guy, and Kyle always found it extremely liberating to be in a house where the parents didn't keep you under a fucking microscope. But Kenny... wasn't Stan. He wasn't his super best friend.

Though Kenny had actually tracked him down on the first day of Stan's new 'Kyle Doesn't Exist' approach to life to tell him that he considered them both good friends, but when the chips were down, he'd always be on his side. This had thrown him for a loop, and he'd asked rather stupidly why. Kenny asked him what did he mean, why?

"Because I'm better friends with you than I am with Stan, dumbass," he'd said, as if it were obvious. Kyle had to admit he'd always assumed it was the other way around, because everyone liked Stan. Stan was one of those rare, genuinely likable people. That was why he was on the football team and hot girls asked him out, even though he had braces and a weak stomach and a dorky, pathetic love for Japanese culture.

Everyone liked Stan and _he_ fucking _loved_ him and Stan didn't want him around anymore. Being a mostly secular Jew, Kyle didn't really read up on God's supposed feelings towards the human race, but he remembered something the priest had said at a memorial service: "We must understand God's sense of humor is very different from our own."

Kyle tipped his head back and looked up at the sky. "I hope you're enjoying yourself, God, you twisted fuck!" he hollered. He waited several moments, and when he was not struck my lightning he scowled. "All right, don't put me out of my misery! Fine, that's _fine!_ See if I care!" he shouted, his arms wheeling at his sides, not unlike a windmill.

He decided to leave Kenny's memorial and go see him in the flesh, instead. Some alcohol would really help take his mind off things. And, hell, maybe he could steal some of Kevin's porn and see if it did anything for him.

Kyle was about halfway there when he spotted someone he hadn't seen since the night they won that football game against Middle Park: Red.

He couldn't avoid her, because she was already staring straight at him. (Kyle cursed his anti-stealth hair.) He also couldn't turn around and flee, because he wasn't a chick even if he _was_ pining after his best friend. So Kyle did the manly thing. He crossed the street at the next crosswalk.

"Kyle! God damn it!" he heard her bark. She elbowed the other pedestrians out of her way and stomped her j-walking ass right across the street, ignoring the cars that swerved to avoid her. Kyle sped up. Fortunately, he had long legs. Unfortunately, Red was on the track team.

"Kyle!" she snapped, diving for his back and grasping two handfuls of his sweatshirt, pulling him back and yanking him to a stop. She paused to catch her breath and, when she deemed he wasn't going to run, let go of his clothes. He turned around to face her and she shoved her hair out of her face.

"God, I've never seen you run that fast."

"It wasn't running, it was a _manly stride_."

Red laughed, but stopped quickly when he didn't join in. "Er-" she began awkwardly.

"Look, what do you want?" he asked irritably. "I have somewhere to be."

"I just..." she trailed off, biting her lip.

"If you don't want anything, I'm leaving," he said harshly. He started to turn away, and would have, if she hadn't made a distressed noise and taken a hasty step forward. As she had, he stopped.

"Red, _what?_"

"Please don't hate me," she said in a small voice. "I really... I really loved you. So _please_ don't hate me."

Kyle sighed and squeezed his eyes closed. "I don't hate you, Red. I'm just... not in a good mood right now, okay?" He was silent for a moment before he burst out, "God. Why _Craig?_"

"It was like... I'd already _lost_ you," she said, swiping at her eyes quickly with the back of her wrist. "And I couldn't even _do_ anything about it. I couldn't stop it. Do you realize how completely helpless that can make a person feel?" she asked, wrapping her arms around herself.

Kyle thought about the brutal ease with which Stan had cut him out of his life, and his stomach turned over. "I can imagine," he said curtly, and then he scowled at her. "But, Red, _damn it_. If you hadn't done it then I would have never realized it, and we'd still be together!"

"You wouldn't be happy," she said miserably. It was a miserable thing to admit that you couldn't make someone you loved happy, after all. "_I_ wouldn't be happy."

"Like we're jumping for joy right now?" Kyle said sarcastically. Red frowned at him.

"Why aren't you with Stan?"

"Why do you think?" Kyle bit out angrily. "Stan doesn't want a friend who'd prefer fucking to playing video games."

Red winced a little at his wording, but she gave him a concerned look nonetheless. "But Stan _adores_ you." Kyle gave a snort of bitter laughter and she frowned at him. "He does! He lights up like a God damn Christmas tree - or, I dunno, menorah - whenever you're around."

"Whatever," Kyle muttered, looking away. "He's made his feelings on the matter pretty fucking clear, I think."

Red continued to frown at him. "Well, _how_ did you tell him?"

"How does it matter now?" Kyle continued in the same forlorn tone. Red made an exasperated noise.

"Kyle, you need to get out of this funk, all right? _Stan_ is supposed to be the one who angsts about his stupid emotions, and you're supposed to be the average, oblivious guy." Kyle glared at her a little and she said, "Now, tell me how you told him."

Kyle ran a hand through his hair. "I just... told him in J-mart. And then he gave me a look like I was going to ass-rape him right there and then and took off running."

Red winced. "God, you really _are_ an average, oblivious guy."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Kyle, Jesus Christ! You don't just _tell_ someone you like them like that! You're supposed to lead up to it carefully, get them alone - you most definitely _don't_ just blurt it out in the middle of a department store!"

"Well, I... Look, I had to tell him before I lost my nerve again. If I hadn't told him then I would have never been able to work up the courage to do it. Big Gay Al said-"

"Big Gay Al?" Red repeated. "Wait, that guy who married Mrs. Garrison's ex-assistant?"

"Yeah," Kyle muttered.

"You took _advice_ from a guy whose name is _Big Gay Al?_ Woah, Kyle. I mean, woah. God damn."

Kyle scowled. "Well, who was I supposed to talk to?" he demanded. When she didn't say anything he pressed, "_Well?_"

"You could've... You could have talked to me," she murmured, twisting a strand of bright red hair around her finger.

Kyle snorted. "Right."

Red bit her lip again. "Kyle, can't we... I don't know... be friends?"

"I really don't see that happening, Red." Kyle didn't really like being so cold to Red; she'd been a good girlfriend. A damn great girlfriend, actually, right up to the end. He'd really liked her - if it weren't for this whole Stan mess, he'd probably have dated her straight through high school. But really, it was _because_ he'd liked her so much that he couldn't be her friend now.

"... I guess that's fair," she said, looking at her feet. "But, Kyle... you've got to take another stab at Stan."

"Why should I?"

"Because that's what you _do!_ You get all huffy and self-righteous about things. It's not like you to just roll over and give up; if it was, you would have given up fighting with Cartman _years_ ago."

"This is a little more important than getting into a bitchfest with fatass, okay, Red?"

"Which means you should be fighting _harder!_ If Stan won't talk to you, then go _make_ him! It's not like things could get _worse_ between you two."

Kyle frowned down at her, mulling it over. She really was right. Stan couldn't just write him off like this. The more he thought about it the more pissed off he got, which also meant the more determined he became. Red _was_ right.

"He's working right now," Kyle, who'd memorized his work schedule, said out loud. "I'll go talk to him now; he won't be able to leave the store, so he can't run that far."

"That's the spirit," Red said, smiling a little forcefully. Kyle noticed this and hesitated.

"Are you, um - with Craig?"

"God no," she said, and finally started to smile for real. "Craig's a prick. And there's something irredeemably sleazy about a guy who hits on another guy's girlfriend." Kyle continued to give her that look and she sighed. "Really, Kyle. I'm an empowered woman. I don't need a guy to support me with his bulging muscles, really."

"... All right," Kyle said, looking away. "... Thanks, Red."

"I really wish you wouldn't thank me," she muttered. "I just wanted to make sure I didn't end things with you on a bad note. I didn't want to feel bad. Just my own selfish reasons."

"That is true," Kyle agreed readily, and Red sighed and shook her head at him.

"You're not supposed to _agree._ God. It's a good thing you ended up gay, Kyle. You really don't understand girls in the slightest."

--

Stan was in the back of the store, moving boxes. He'd just lifted up a particularly heavy one when I voice that did not belong to any of his employers nor any of his coworkers said, "So _that's_ how you keep in shape. Slave labor. Does the body good."

Stan jumped, dropped the box on his foot, and swore loudly. He yanked his foot out from under it and whipped around to look at Kyle, who wasn't bothering to try and hide the fact he was laughing at him.

"_Kyle!_" he hissed. "What the hell are you doing here?"

_Yeah, really smooth, Marsh. You don't see him for a week, and then you make an ass out of yourself._ Stan frowned and bit down, as if hoping to trap anymore stupid things from coming out of his mouth. He'd _missed_ Kyle. So what did he do when he finally saw him again? Fling a demand at him. As if Kyle weren't already pissed off enough.

Kyle sobered up, and for a horrible moment Stan expected him to turn around and walk back out, but then a slow grin broke back out on his face.

"Trying to kill you by indirectly causing minor injuries over an extended period of time," he said, rolling his eyes. "You've been avoiding me so I tracked you down."

"_I've_ been avoiding _you?_" He gaped at him. "Is _that_ what you think?"

"What would you call it?" Kyle snapped, and Stan winced. He _was_ still mad. "Ward off? You know, despite Cartman's claims to the contrary, Jews aren't vampires. We're not going to burn if you prod us with crosses."

Stan scowled a little. "It wasn't like that! I mean, okay, I was sort of ditching you..."

Kyle snorted. "_Sort_ of?"

Stan looked away. "Look, let's discuss this later."

"Hell no, I'm not letting you run away again. We're going to talk about it now."

"You're not supposed to be back here! This is an employees-only part of the store!"

"So? I'll just throw on someone's apron." His gaze zoomed in on several that were hanging on a rack. He grabbed one and tossed it on, tying it quickly. Stan looked on, stupefied.

"... Kyle, you can't wear that apron."

"C'mon, this store employs about a hundred people. No one will notice I'm not one of them."

"I mean, that name tag says _Jennifer_," he said, pointing a finger at Kyle's chest. Kyle looked down, then back up. He shrugged and smirked.

"So if anyone asks I'll just start crying and say I have a medical condition."

"Dude-"

"If I was Jennifer," Kyle interrupted, not looking so amused anymore, "would you still be avoiding me?"

Stan adverted his gaze. "Kyle..."

"Call me Jennifer."

"_Kyle_," he asserted, scowling at him. He made a vague, wild gesture. "You can't... I mean, man, you can't just _drop_ something like that on a guy! It's just... why _me?_" he finished desperately, because Kyle always had all the answers, even if Stan didn't want to hear them.

Kyle shrugged.

"Hell if I know."

--

On the following Friday, a week after the last newspaper went out, Craig came into the journalism class after school and picked a fight with Wendy in front of the entire class. They had all begun inexplicably showing up to the after-school production time, after Wendy had made an offhanded comment to Cartman about how annoying it was to do all the work by herself, with only the off-and-on assistance of Brandon and the counterproductive presence of him. The next afternoon every since one of them had been there, looking either terrified or pissed off. Several times during the period someone would stand, obviously getting ready to leave, but then Cartman would shoot them a look and they'd slowly sit back down, taking their backpack off of their shoulder.

Wendy had of course been pleased with this new development, but having Craig chew her out in front of the people she was in charge of was both mortifying and enraging.

He'd brought a few of his football buddies along to complain about some inconsistency in the numbers, a claim Wendy vehemently denied. Her paper did not have _mistakes_. She'd instead demanded to know why he'd waited a _week_ to bring this up, to which he'd replied: "It's the fucking school paper. No one gives a crap. I only just read it."

That was, of course, like a slap to the face. _No one_ was going to insult her paper, because that was like insulting her, and no one insulted Wendy Testaburger. She'd lost her cool, she admitted, and they'd yelled at each other until Ms. Dieterle rushed in, said she'd heard it all the way in the teacher's lounge, and kicked Craig and his friends out.

Wendy had grabbed Token's arm as his friends filed out, pulling him off to the side for a moment.

"Why didn't you stick up for me!" she cried, furious, but made sure to keep her voice low.

Token looked down at her. "Well, you were wrong." Wendy gaped at him and he shrugged out of her grip.

"When I said 'out' I meant _now_, Mr. Black," Ms. Dieterle said, tapping her heel. Token scowled.

"Great, now you got me bitched at."

Wendy fumed. "I-"

"I'll see you later, Wendy," he interrupted stiffly, leaving the classroom. Wendy stood there at the door for a long time, in a slight state of shock at being brushed off. Slowly, the rest of the class got back to work. She finally snapped out of it and turned around, straightening her clothes and trying to brush the incident off.

Wendy spotted a very familiar sight: a torn piece of notebook paper. This one hadn't even made it to the shout-out inbox, and had been laid on her desk. She picked it up slowly and turned it over. Scribbled in pencil was the following:

_Wendy_

_I would never ignore you._

_Love, Anonymous_

Wendy stared down at it. It _had_ to be written by someone who was in the classroom, right now. Her eyes scanned the room, casually, but everyone was bent over their desks, working.

Everyone but Cartman, that is. But then, he was the only one she'd _really_ intended to look at. He was staring at the slip of paper in her hands, and then his gaze flickered up to hers when he realized she was looking him.

Cartman made a nasty face at her and turned away. Wendy folded the slip of paper up and, instead of depositing it with Cassidy in the shout-out section, tucked it into the front pocket of her jeans.

--

TBC


	11. Only a Little Drunk

I was wondering today, why do so many people write older!Kyle with 'tamed hair'? I'm not the only one who thinks his Jewfro is the greatest thing ever, am I? (I laughed so God damn hard during "How to Eat with Your Butt"...) You could always just shave it off, too. It looks nice on Matt. Anyway, I'm rambling, and no one cares.

ALTERNATE CHAPTER TITLE: Another One of Those Stan/Kyle Chapters

--

--

--

As Wendy walked from the bus stop to her home Friday afternoon, after finally dismissing the journalism class, she contemplated her weekend. Clyde was throwing an open party for the upperclassman. Token would be going, she knew - of course Token was going, Clyde was his best friend. Token would probably expect her to go, too.

But she didn't like parties, really. And anyway, she thought, her fingers dipping into her pocket and brushing the folded edge of the binder paper she'd stuffed in there, why should she go out of her way for Token? When was the last time he'd gone out of his way for _her?_

--

Stan went to Clyde's party because he didn't have work, and because Kenny told him he had to.

"You've got to stop moping about Wendy," he told him, and Stan frowned and said, "I _have_." Which was true. Ever since Kyle had came out (or rather, come on) to him, he hadn't even thought about Wendy or Cartman. Or Wendy _and_ Cartman.

But he'd completely spaced that Kyle would be there, too. That he wouldn't be able to avoid him, and they'd have to be in the same vicinity, and Kyle would give him that look that said _I wouldn't be at all opposed to getting inside your pants_ while he squirmed.

They _had_ talked, that day in the J-mart stockroom, and Kyle _had_ convinced him that he wasn't pissed at him. ("Why _would_ I be?" Kyle had asked, completely bemused.) However, he had also made what sort of relationship he wanted with him explicitly clear. And... Stan really, really didn't want to have to deal with this.

He sputtered out the story to Kenny as he dragged him by the wrist into Clyde's house, hoping Kenny would understand and let him turn around and flee before Kyle spotted him. But by the time he'd finished explaining, Kenny was nodding.

"Yeah, so he finally told you; look, this is old news."

"What!" Stan wailed. "You already _knew?_"

"Of course I know. You may not have noticed, Stan, but Kyle and I talk. And we hang out while you're at football or J-mart. Mostly because he knows he can always steal a beer if he hangs around my house long enough."

"_You're_ the one that said it was UST," Stan fumed, suddenly remembering the conversation he'd had with Kyle, back when their relationship was a platonic, heterosexual one.

"Dude, it _is_. There's more sexual tension between you and Kyle than there is between me and the entire female gender."

"I _like girls_, Kenny," Stan said, annunciating every word.

Kenny rolled his eyes. "You can like girls all you want. But you _want_ Kyle."

"No, I don't!"

"Yes, you do, Stan. Kyle has got you completely sexually frustrated. Let me guess - all the little things Kyle does pisses you off, don't they? They make you want to tackle him and just _do something_ to him, right? Stop me if I'm wrong."

Stan glared. Stan opened his mouth, ready to retort, but they he heard a cheerful "Hey, dudes," behind him and cringed inwardly.

Kyle.

"Hey, man," Kenny said brightly, abandoning him like the traitor he was and slapping Kyle on the back. "How's the party?"

"Pretty good," Kyle said, taking a generous gulp of the beer in his hand. "Oh - they threw Porsche in the pool, and she'd walking around with a wet t-shirt."

"Oh _hell yeah_," Kenny said enthusiastically, twisting his head around to try to see her. Kyle snickered.

"Thought you'd like that," he said, amused, and then he glanced over at Stan. "... Hey, Stan."

"Hey," Stan said, inspecting the ceiling for cracks. Kyle frowned briefly.

"They've got a cooler in the living room."

Clyde threw the best parties. He didn't have Token's big house, but his parents were chronically out of town because his father was a geologist. And until Randy Marsh, who sat behind a desk all day and monitored the South Park volcano, Mr. Donovan studied earthquakes, which meant he was constantly globe-trotting. Clyde was also one of the very few people in town with a swimming pool, and though it had been somewhat dented from housing an orca, it was still in good condition.

They made their way into the living room and sat down on the couch; Kenny immediately excused himself and went searching through the house. Stan assumed he was trying to catch an eyeful of Porsche. Kyle hooked his foot around the cooler and dragged it over, grabbing Stan a beer, which he took from him, making sure he didn't brush Kyle's fingers in the process. Kyle frowned at his hand, and then he flopped back in the couch and finished off his beer.

Stan and Kyle commenced Not Talking. After a while, Kyle reached into the cooler and opened another can.

Stan let out an audible sigh of relief when Kenny reappeared. His relief was somewhat dampened, however, by the expression on Kenny's face. He collapsed on the couch on the other side of Stan and glared at the carpet. After a few moments of confused silence on Stan and Kyle's part, and resentful silence on Kenny's part, Clyde and Lexus stumbled into the room, giggling. They tripped over the recliner, which folded under their combined weight. They started laughing, harder, and then began messily making out.

"Hey," Kyle said, "isn't she the girl you were planning on...?"

"_Yes_," Kenny bit out. "And I don't want to talk about it. There any soda in that cooler?"

He laughed and fished a coke out for him, chucking it across the couch. Kenny opened in promptly, and it burst out all over his hand. He lifted it up and sucked some off, and Kyle laughed again. They spent the next twenty minutes or so complaining about school, homework, and teachers. Kenny had something unprintable to say on each subject.

Kyle was sort of a lush. It was sort of funny, because everybody had always assumed Kenny would fill that niche in their foursome. Kenny, however, never drank. He said he hated the smell of it, which was understandable, because his house always stank like it. So Kenny whored around and shoplifted and cut class and smoked, but he didn't drink. Stan supposed everyone had to have _some_ virtue.

So, though Stan was a tad buzzed himself, he could tell Kyle was much drunker. Mainly because he was laughing at Kenny's off-color jokes. That was always a telltale sign.

"This party sucks," Stan finally decided. Kenny and Kyle broke off their imitation of the math teacher masturbating to complex differential equations to look at him.

"No party with a confused, shirtless lesbian is a bad party, Stan," Kenny said very solemnly, as if he'd just been informed he wasn't coming back anymore and had to impart his last words of wisdom.

"I mean, what is there to do?"

Kyle leaned forward, sliding his arm up around the back of the couch. "Well, we _could_..."

"We're not doing that."

Kyle made a disappointed noise and dropped back down into his seat. Stan frowned at him.

"I thought... man, I thought you were dating Red."

Kyle snorted. "We broke up."

"What? When?"

"Right after the party at Butters' house, I guess. I mean, we never sent official notification to each other's homes, but that was the last time we spoke to each other."

Stan stared at him. "I didn't know."

"That's because you were too busy angsting over Wendy to notice."

Stan decided to ignore that dig. "Why'd you break up?"

"She gave Craig a blow job at the party."

He gaped at him. "_What?_"

Kyle shrugged.

"You don't _care?_ Aren't you _pissed?_"

"'S not her fault her boyfriend's queer," Kyle said matter-of-factly. "Anyway, if I haven't made in explicitly clear already, Red really isn't the one I want to be with."

Stan's neck turned a little red when Kyle punctured his sentence with _that look_ again. He glanced sideways at Kenny, who was sitting back and sipping calmly at his soda, making no move to rescue him. Stan shifted away from Kyle a little and cast around for a different topic of conversation.

"Um," he said. "At work, yesterday. I got a raise."

"Bet I could give you a raise."

"Kyle, God dammit! I really hate it when you do that!"

"Then why haven't you told me to stop?"

"... Will you just fuck off! I just want you to leave me alone!" Stan cried, looking away from him.

"_Fine,_" Kyle snarled, standing up and storming off. Stan blinked and stared at his retreating back, his eyes widening.

He hadn't actually _meant_ it.

For a while he sat there, a little stunned, and then Kenny said, "Man. That was really harsh." Stan turned around to face him.

"Well... well, Christ, what was I supposed to do?"

"Not be a complete asshole?" Kenny suggested sarcastically, though he kept his voice innocent. Stan glared.

"He was...!" Stan said, gesturing helplessly. Kenny rolled his eyes.

"A little innuendo won't kill a guy."

"This sucks," Stan grumbled. "I mean, it's like he woke up one morning and decided he had a boner for me."

"No, he's _always_ had a boner for you. He just woke up and realized it. And now he's accepted it, while you're still struggling with your petty denial."

"I'm not in denial!"

Kenny rolled his eyes. "Okay. Let's say for the sake of argument that you aren't. Let's say - entirely hypothetically - that you _don't_ want to screw Kyle senseless. Well, you know what? It doesn't change the fact that Kyle _does_. And you're gonna have to deal with it, man."

"How do you even _know?_"

"Because, God damn it, I _know_ sexual tension when I see it. You and Kyle have it. Cartman and Wendy have it. You all need to screw each other and get it over with." Kenny cast one more glare at Clyde and Lexus, then turned away, grumbling about how everyone was getting laid but him.

Stan was torn between horror at the thought of Wendy and Cartman, and utter embarrassment at the thought of himself and Kyle. He settled with picking at his fingernails, then he sighed and said, "I _know_ I'm going to have to deal with this thing with Kyle somehow - that I _haven't_ been dealing with it well so far - but, fuck, what am I supposed to do? This could all go so very, very wrong and completely fuck up our friendship-"

"Stop right there," Kenny said, holding up a hand. "The moment you do something as chickish as worry about ruining a friendship is the moment you condemn yourself to a life of pillow biting."

Stan colored. "I _HAVE NOT!_"

"Whatever, you and Kyle can flip a coin to decide who bites the pillow for all I care; I don't really want the specifics."

"Damn, Kenny, I liked you so much better when you had that hood, and I could never understand what you were saying," Stan grumbled, glaring at him.

"Yeah," Kenny said. "I get that a lot."

Stan scowled, stood up, and walked away from him. He was hardly gone a moment before a bubbly voice said "Hey!" and Bebe plopped down in the seat Stan had just vacated. "How are you?"

"Just great," Kenny grumbled. "Stan went to go bone Kyle, and Cartman's off trying to figure out how to bone Wendy, and the girl _I'm_ supposed to be boning is being boned by someone else," he said, glaring over Bebe's shoulder at Clyde and Lexus. Bebe turned around to see who he was looking at, then turned back to face him, shaking her head.

"Forget her, Kenny. She charges way too much for what _she's_ selling." She paused, looking at the morose expression on his face. "Anyway, I've heard she and the rest of the former Raisins crowd cut PE and have a lesbian orgy in the handicapped bathroom stall."

Kenny's eyes glazed over. "Oh, God, I hope so." Then he sighed. "You know I haven't scored since before school let out last year?"

"Here," Bebe said, putting down her drink and clasping his wrists, "I know what'll cheer you up." She placed his hands over her breasts and then let her hands fall away. Kenny's eyebrows rose several notches. "Feel better?"

"... Pretty damn great, actually," he said, flexing his hands experimentally. "Want to go upstairs and have sex?"

"Sorry," she said, patting him fondly on the arm. "I like my men terrified and backed into a corner. But I'll tell you what," she said, sliding her hand up his arm, gripping his neck, and pulling him down. "You rest your head on my womanly bosom and let it all out," she said, rubbing his back.

"God," he said into her chest, his voice muffled for the first time since fifth grade, "you are like my best friend _ever._"

--

Cartman had chosen to stay in the backyard, away from all those drunk assholes. He'd more or less succeeded in avoiding them; about an hour ago some dicks had lugged that stupid dyke Porsche out and thrown her in the pool, but then they'd all went back inside and left him alone. He'd only come to this dumb party because he'd thought Wendy might show up, but he hadn't seen her yet, and he very much doubted he was going to.

To be fair, it would be incorrect to say Eric Cartman hated everything. He liked Cheesy Poofs, Jackovasaurs, and making Kyle's life as crappy as possible. And, more recently, he liked Wendy.

And it was really starting to piss him off.

He didn't know how she _did_ it. Somehow she'd managed to worm her way into his head and completely screw with his emotions, _again_. You'd think he'd have learned his lesson, he berated himself, completely disgusted with this new development.

He wasn't like Stan, who clung to some pathetic crush from elementary school. He'd liked Wendy in third grade - he could admit that, sure. But he'd gotten over it, and a week later he'd been back to normal, mocking her and trying to kick her out of his boy band. He'd considered it a temporary loss of sanity and moved on to bigger things.

And now that bitch was dragging him down again.

He hated liking Wendy because it made him want to do things for her, and he was the sort of person that really only liked doing things for himself. And even _after_ he did all this shit - drugging Middle Park, stealing his mom's boyfriend's car, making sure every single journalism student had a reason to keep their ass in their chair - she was still with that black asshole Token. He had nothing to show for all his work, no payoff.

Cartman was used to getting the things he wanted. The problem was, he didn't know _how_ to get Wendy. Deception? Manipulation? Blackmail? He doubted it would work; she was a bitch, but she was a smart bitch. Getting his PSP from Kenny would be child's play compared to getting Wendy to like him.

Cartman was also used to having plans, but he couldn't think of a single one. Should he just keep doing what he'd been doing? Somehow, he felt that approach was just too passive. He needed something more direct. He needed something daring.

The whole situation was incredibly aggravating. He only knew of one thing that could cheer him up: arguing with Kyle.

As chance would have it, Kyle happened to stumble out into the backyard at that exact moment. He leaned against the back of the house and breathed in deeply, his eyes closed. Cartman lifted an eyebrow. Apparently, he had detached himself from Stan's hip. He hadn't thought such a thing was possible.

"What're you doing here, Jew-boy?" he asked rudely, picking up his untouched cup of beer and strolling over loudly. Kyle jumped, then glared at him a little.

"Getting some fresh air."

"Or trying to sober up," Cartman said snidely. Kyle's mild glare turned to a scowl.

"I _am not_ drunk!"

Which was, Cartman thought, complete bullshit. He said as much, and added, "The liquor even covers up the Jew-stench that usually clings to you."

"_God damn it, Cartman!_" Kyle shouted, thinking of the look Stan had given him when he'd told him to get lost while he grabbed a fistful of Cartman's shirt. "This is all your fault!"

"It's not _my_ fault you're a drunk!" Cartman shouted back, and then, because he doubted Kyle would let him go, he threw his drink into his face.

Kyle stared there a moment, dripping, shocked, and then he shrieked "_SONOVABITCH!_", pushed Cartman into the snow, and disappeared back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Cartman got up, brushing himself off and feeling elated. It only lasted for a second or two, however. Then he was back to dwelling on Wendy.

--

Kyle cursed out loud while he stood in Clyde's basement, pulling his beer-soaked shirt up over his head and dropped it in the washing machine. He measured out some soap, dumped it in, then closed the lid and hit the start button.

Great. Now he was stuck in this house for an hour, or however long it took to wash and dry his shirt. He supposed his only option was to go find Porsche and stick to her side. He figured that, next to her, his shirtless state wouldn't attract as much attention. That was, if she'd have anything to do with him. She was Red's best friend, after all, and _he_ wouldn't have had anything to do with Wendy.

Kyle was halfway up the stairs when the basement door opened, and none other than Stan appeared in the door frame. He'd wandered the entire house after leaving Kenny and, after getting rather violently hit on by Heidi, he'd decided to seek refuge in the basement.

They both froze and stared at each other, Kyle leaning a little heavily on the banister and looking up, Stan looking down with one hand still on the doorknob. Stan opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Kyle's startled look abruptly changed to one of animosity.

"I was just going up," he said nastily. "I'll get out of your way." He marched up the stairs and went to push past Stan, but he was weaving a little and missed a step. He would have fallen backwards down the stairs if Stan's hands hadn't shot out and grabbed him by the arms, pulling him forward, towards him. Kyle fisted his sweatshirt instinctively, and when he got his footing back, he scowled and tried to shove Stan away, which nearly sent him tumbling backwards again.

"Let go of me," Kyle snapped.

"Damn, dude, you're going to get yourself killed," Stan said, stubbornly hanging on.

"I'm not that drunk," Kyle said defensively. "Let the fuck _go_ of me!"

"No," Stan snapped back. "You're going to break your neck!"

"I am not!" Kyle had to crane his neck to yell at him, because he was still standing two steps lower than him. "I can take care of myself, all right? So fuck off and leave me alone!"

Stan winced. He'd just told Kyle the exact same thing less than twenty minutes ago. He hadn't figured it would hurt that much to hear it. "Look, I'm sure you can take care of yourself. But let me do it anyway, all right?"

"Quit patronizing me, jackass!"

Stan ground his teeth. Kyle was _doing_ it again - pissing him off by really doing nothing at all. And so because Kyle'd broken up with his girlfriend, and because Kyle wasn't wearing a shirt, and because they were both a little drunk, Stan leaned down and kissed him.

Kyle stiffened immediately and tightened his grip on Stan's sweatshirt, but then he made a throaty, contented noise and melted into him, untangling his fingers from the fabric and letting them slide down Stan's side.

And then a dump truck worth's of reality fell on Stan, and the dump truck ran over him, backed up, and ran over him again to drive the point home. Stan yelped and jumped backwards, tripped, and cracked the back of his skull against the door. Kyle, who was still clinging to him, fell across him with an "uff!" He propped himself up, his elbows on either side of Stan's hips, and gave him a bemused look.

"I- guh-" Stan dropped behind himself for the doorknob, found it, nearly broke his wrist twisting it open and shoving it open, and then he scrambled out from underneath Kyle, climbed to his feet, and took two speedy steps backwards.

Kyle got two his feet as well and followed after Stan, that somewhat confused look still on his face. "Stan-"

"I- guh-" Stan repeated and took four more steps backwards, hit the wall with enough force to knock the paintings off center, and then started sliding along the wall, away from Kyle.

Kyle frowned at his behavior and continued following after him. "Stan, hold on-"

"I-! Guh-!" Stan's voice was unusually high. "I didn't mean to do that!" Stan's high-pitched voice cracked.

Kyle stopped walking. His eyes narrowed, and then his hands clenched into fists. "Fine. Stan, you know what? Fine. I've had enough of this bullshit." He marched past him, down the hall.

"Wuh, what? Wait," Stan called, unsticking himself from the wall and hurrying after him. He found Kyle by the front door, rooting through the fishbowl everyone had dropped their keys into when they'd entered the residence. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving," Kyle said shortly.

"_Where?_"

"Home, obviously." Kyle found his father's keys and untangled them from Porsche's bright pink, fluffy nightmare of a key chain.

"But... your parents took away your keys," Stan said, trying to process the situation.

"So I stole my dad's keys, so what?" Kyle snapped.

Stan stared at him. "Kyle, you can't drive."

"I can do whatever the hell I want," Kyle said, reaching for the door. Stan grabbed the keys right out of his hands, and Kyle whirled back around to face him, fuming.

"Give them back, Stan!"

"You can't drive!" Stan argued. Kyle reached for them and Stan held them up over his head, which really wasn't going to deter him much. Kyle and Stan were practically identical in height, if you didn't factor Kyle's Jewfro into the equation.

"I'm fucking serious, Stan!"

"So am I!"

And because Stan really _couldn't_ let Kyle leave, and he knew Kyle would be able to yank them out of his grasp, and because he had no pockets, Stan did the only thing he could think of, and stuffed them down his pants.

Kyle stared at him in utter bemusement for a while. Or, to be more specific, he stared at his crotch. Then he met his eyes and said, "If you're trying to distract me, I'll have you know it's working."

"Er," Stan said, as the full weight of the situation finally hit him, and he flushed. "I _didn't_ mean it like that - it's just - you can't leave-" he said brokenly.

"God damn it," Kyle snarled, and then he was pissed again. "Stan, what the _fuck_ is your problem? If you actually like it then stop dicking around and kiss me, and if you really hate it then stop being a pussy and punch me! Just quit jerking me around!"

And then he stormed out of the house and marched all the way home in the snow, shirtless, with the sort of anger you can only achieve through a combination of alcohol and teenager stupidity.

--

TBC


	12. A More Direct Approach

Okay. _This_ is the chapter I have been waiting for ever since I first sat down to write this fic. It's everything I've been working up to. And I really, really like it. But at the same time, I'm kinda worried how you readers are going to take it.

--

--

--

_Wendy_

_I want to talk to you face-to-face. Meet me at the baseball diamond in the park._

_Love, Anonymous._

--

It was the first thing she saw when she walked into journalism Monday morning, and it floored her so completely that she actually had to sit down for a moment.

She tried to work on the next addition of the newspaper, but she couldn't focus; she kept pulling the note back out, rereading it, and tracing the words with her finger - _I want to talk to you face-to-face._ It was a simple sentence that shouldn't affect her so but did.

All during her classes that morning Wendy was plagued by the question: Should she go?

It had been seven weeks since school started - three newspapers she'd published, four anonymous love letters she'd received, and now... this. A request to meet, to talk, to actually look him in the face and... what? What would Cartman say?

Because she had, by now, accepted that Cartman _was_ writing them.

Wendy was still dwelling on it at lunch. She pushed her fork around in her food, digging a little hole into her mashed potatoes before smoothing it out, creating a mound, and then digging into it again while the gravy from her roast beef ran down into it and turned it a muddy gray-brown color. She finally just stuck her fork into it and rested her chin on her fists with a sigh. The fork was held aloft for a moment or two, the handle sticking straight up into the air, supported by the mashed potato mess, but then gravity took over and it tipped over slowly, coming to a rest in the peas.

For that matter, what would _she_ say to _Cartman?_

"Damn, girl, what's wrong with you?"

Wendy blinked and looked across the table at Bebe, who was giving her a curious look, sipping away at her soda.

"It's... nothing."

"Oh, bullshit. The last time you bought the school lunch was when you thought Token was cheating on you with Lola." She leaned across the table and patted her on the arm. "Look, Wendy, I can assure: Token isn't cheating. If only out of fear of the consequences."

Wendy frowned. "It's not that."

"Then what? Oh - you're not cheating on _him_, are you?"

"Of course I'm not-!" Wendy started say, but the words died somewhere in her throat and she looked down at the table.

_Was_ she cheating on him? She wasn't sure anymore if her interaction with Cartman in the past several weeks could be called 'harmless.'

"Wendy, what is it?" Bebe asked, concerned. Wendy shook her head, and when Bebe did not relinquish her grip on her arm she sighed and reached into her pocket, pulled out the piece of paper that had kept her so indecisive all day, and passed it to Bebe. Bebe sat back in her seat and unfolded it, smoothing it out as she read.

"_Oh_," Bebe said, and bit her lip. She glanced up at Wendy, then back at the note, then folded it back up and passed it back to her. Wendy took it glumly and let it sit there on the table between them.

"Well," she finally said, "are you going to go?"

"I haven't decided yet," Wendy admitted. Bebe gaped at her.

"What do you mean, you don't _know?_ The answer's obvious! Of course you should go!"

Wendy blinked. Wait, what? Bebe was supposed to reassure her Token was a great boyfriend, and that she _shouldn't_ go! That she _shouldn't_ get in any deeper than she already was!

"Huh?"

"Wendy, you've been acting... I don't know... more _passionate_ these past seven weeks. For the longest time all I've been hearing out of you is how Token won't _communicate_ the way you want him to... how you feel the same when he's around as when he isn't... blah blah blah. You're bored. Your romance has gotten boring. And, hell, that's no big surprise. You've been dating him since you were nine, you've both just grown up and outgrown each other."

Wendy gaped at her. Then she finally mustered out a, "That's not true!"

"It is true. Your relationship is stale. Old. We're at the age where it's supposed to be all excitement and head rushes and reckless abandon, but you and Token act like you're married. And not even cute married couples, like old people who snark about the state of the world and play shuffleboard or some other old-person game. You're like the couple where the guy spends the entire day at the office and the girl spends the entire day with the kids, and at the end of it they can't even work up the energy to talk to each other. Apathetic. Routine. Mechanical. _Boring_."

She kept gaping at her. Then she said, very slowly, "I do not like Eric Cartman, Bebe."

Bebe expelled a loud breath and looked heavenward, folding her hands as if she were praying for patience. Wendy glared and she turned back to look at her.

"All right," she said. "Fine. You win. You don't like Cartman and you never did."

She resumed drinking her soda and Wendy stared at her. Surely Bebe was going to try to further persuade her. But she didn't. She just kept slurping down her coke.

Wendy's face screwed up in confusion. They sat in silence for several minutes, and then Wendy said, "Well... maybe I did. Once. Eight years ago. Just a stupid little... thing."

Bebe, seeing that she had won some slack, pounced.

"Go, Wendy. Seriously. Meet him at home plate in the gathering dim and swoon right into his chubby arms." Wendy was glaring at her again. Realizing she'd overplayed her hand a little, Bebe relented. "At least hear him out. You at least owe him _that_, Wendy, for making you act _passionate_ about something again."

Wendy sighed. "Hear him out, huh?" she said, rubbing her forehead. "So then what the hell would _I_ say?"

"Look, if you really don't like him - and I mean _really_ - then just _tell_ him that."

"I don't know..." Wendy said hesitantly. "How would he take that?"

"How would he take it if you didn't show up?" Bebe pointed out, and Wendy's eyes widened a little. "Think about _that_, Wendy. It's common knowledge that the wheel may be turning in Cartman's head, but the hamster must be dead or something. Think about Scott Tenorman, who got held back a bunch of years because he had to go to some special therapy group up in the mountains. Now you _tell_ me that Cartman wouldn't be a complete nightmare if you stood him up."

Wendy bit her lip. "You have a point."

"Of course I have a point," Bebe said. "God, a heartbroken Cartman. I do believe that would be more terrifying to witness than the rapture. He would make sure that everyone, everywhere, felt just as fucking horrible as he did."

--

Because Wendy had been so flustered that morning during journalism class, Ms. Dieterle had proposed that they skip the usual after-class meeting. Wendy had agreed with her and so, when she arrived at journalism after school, the room was empty. She tooled around on the computer for a while, telling herself she was just dedicated to her studies, but she really knew she was just stalling.

She had to... work up some courage, before she could do this. She had to do this _right_. It would help if she could figure out what she was going to do.

Wendy had just turned off the computer and was sliding out of her seat when the door opened. She whipped around quickly and saw none other than Token, who was frowning a little. "Though you might be in here."

She frowned back at him. "You where looking for me?"

"I heard about that note."

_God damn it, Bebe_. Gossip was that girl's greatest downfall. Bebe never really meant to blab her secrets, and she always felt awful and apologized afterward, but she just seemed unable to stop herself. Wendy's eyes narrowed a little. "What about it?"

"You're not _going_, are you?" he asked, staring at her. She glared a moment, and then she turned and began gathering her things together.

"So what if I am?"

"You can't be serious."

Wendy bristled. "And why can't I?" she demanded. He didn't answer her and she went back to collecting her things, then slid her backpack on her shoulders. Token hadn't moved from his spot by the door. When she walked past him and reached for the doorknob, he said, "Wendy, if you go to meet Cartman, I'm going to have to break up with you."

She didn't even hesitate. Wendy simply looked him straight in the eye and said, "Then I guess you're going to have to break up with me."

Later, while she walked down the sidewalk toward the South Park Park (wittingly named), it occurred to her that Token had as good as given her a push out the door. If he hadn't insisted on her _not_ going, she may not had insisted on herself going. She shivered in the November wind and dug her hands deeper into her pockets against the chill.

There wasn't _really_ a park when she was a kid. Just a basketball court and some rusting metal catastrophe. But then one day Mrs. Broflovski had decided her younger son needed someplace safe to play after school while his big brother was off being held ransom by park rangers. So she'd petitioned the mayor to bulldoze a bunch of trees and build a suitable park, the kind with plastic jungle gyms and foam padding instead of sand.

The fact that Ike Broflovski had never in his life played there did not seem to faze her.

It really was a nice park, though, Wendy reflected. It was big, and the kids' area only took up about a fourth of it. There was also an area where families could barbecue, a place for dogs to run around in, a basketball court, and the baseball diamond. She cut across the fields, passing the "Do Not Walk On The Grass" sign as she crunched through the remnants of the last snow storm. The baseball diamond was at the bottom of a sort of hill, if the hill was tall enough to call it such.

There wasn't anyone there yet, but Wendy found that preferable. That way, she had some time to collect her thoughts and figure out just what she was going to say.

She sat down in the dugout and gripped the bench on either side of her thighs, leaning forward and peering out across the field. After a moment she began drumming her fingers, fidgeting, and then she folded her hands tightly in her lap, trapping them. She was full of nervous energy and she didn't want it to show. She was way too tense, like her body was ready to jump up and run at any moment. To take her mind off her current situation, she thought about Token.

Wendy had always expected herself and Token to last the way she and Stan hadn't. After all... he really had been a great boyfriend, and the major problem that had existed between Stan and herself - that he only even seemed to remember he had a girlfriend every now and then - was absent in her relationship with Token. But... Bebe was right. He just didn't hold her interest anymore. All he seemed to want to talk about lately was football, and football was so... boring.

She wasn't surprised he'd broken up with her. _She_ would have, if their positions were reversed. There was no way she'd have let her boyfriend go meet a secret admirer.

It was starting to get darker. Being November, the sun was starting to set earlier every day. As she watched the street lights began to go on, little pinpricks lighting up the dark street. By now, of course, the park was empty. Even with the street lamps illuminating the road, Wendy couldn't see very far out in the field.

Wendy had to admit to herself that she'd always hoped it was Cartman writing those anonymous love letters, ever since Bebe had first suggested it. That would mean she hadn't been completely crazy to trust him, when she went to watch Token's game and left the newspaper in his destructive hands. It would mean she wouldn't be completely crazy to... like him.

Maybe.

Just a little bit.

Well, she didn't _hate_ him. She could say that with perfect honesty. She didn't think she'd ever hated Cartman, even when he'd used her newspaper for his own means.

It started to rain, big fat drops that pounded down on the roof of the dugout. Cold rain, not quite cold enough to turn into hail or snow, but close. Wendy crossed her legs and wrapped her arms around her midsection, glad for the roof and leaning away from the cold wall. She shivered, then she uncrossed her legs and stood, pacing around the dugout to get some circulation going.

Cartman still hadn't shown up.

She frowned and moved as close to the edge of the dugout as she could, squinting out into the dark and the rain. Wendy frowned, running her tongue across her teeth, and unstuck her left hand from her armpit to check the time. Of course it was too dark to make it out, so she had to fumble for the button that lit up the screen.

Wendy was startled when she saw the time - six o'clock, nearly. She'd left the school at four, and if she factored in the time it had taken her to walk over, she'd been sitting out there for over an hour.

Wendy lifted a hand and leaned it against the wall of the dugout, and the left side of her body soon followed. She rested all of her weight there as it finally sunk in: Cartman wasn't coming.

Her right hand curled very slowly, very involuntarily into a fist. Wendy's nails dug into her palms, and she didn't even notice.

Cartman wasn't _coming_.

Cartman, it appeared, had never even intended to come.

"That... _bastard_," Wendy breathed. She'd brought her right fist to her mouth and her left quickly mirrored it, and she spoke into her knuckles as she stared out across the dark field.

She... _hated_ him. That's what that burning from her stomach right up to her throat had to be.

Like hell she was going to let him get away with this.

--

Cartman was interrupted from his video game by a violent knocking on his front door. No, knocking wasn't the right word - it was a pounding. He scowled at the door; his mother was busy at her night job, so she wasn't going to answer it for him.

Grumbling, he paused the game and lugged himself to his feet. "I'm coming!" he hollered. The pounding did not subside. If anything, it doubled in intensity. He made his way to the door, kicking Mister Kitty out of his way as he went. He swung the door open with an irritable "_What?_", and then he paused and stared at Wendy Testaburger, snarling and dripping on his front step. Cartman arched an eyebrow at her and said, "What are you doing here, ho?"

Instead of answering him like a civilized person, she shoved violently past him and stormed into the house, leaving muddy shoe prints on his mom's clean carpet.

Wendy surveyed the paused video game. She looked at the half-eaten box of doughnuts and empty soda cans by the couch. She shook with fury, and then she turned around and glared at him as hard as she knew how. "You _bastard_. You. Son. Of a. _BITCH_."

"What the hell are you bitching about?"

Wendy's hands clenched into fists at her sides, and she shook with the effort it took to keep herself from hitting him. "You've just been sitting here playing video games _all day._"

"Look, ho, what the hell do you want? Don't I put up with enough of your PMS at school?"

She placed a hand against her head and counted to five, very slowly. She was so angry, it was actually giving her a headache. Wendy dropped her hand and resumed glaring, trying to reign in all her anger as she glared at him.

He'd set her up. He'd made a fool out of her. He'd led her on and he'd... hurt her. Her pride, yes, her ego, definitely, but... her heart, too. It actually, physically ached. It was nothing like the detachment she'd felt when she'd broken up with Stan and, now, Token. She glared at him and hated him for what he'd done to her, hated everything about him, from his warm spot in front of the TV right down to his t-shirt with the words 'CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE IS STILL DISOBEDIENCE' plastered over a stick figure police man beating a stick figure woman.

"Why," she breathed, "do you _do_ things like this? Are you just that much of a twisted asshole? Or do you deprive some sort of sick pleasure out of it?"

Cartman's face twisted into a sneer. "Hey, bitch, I don't need to put up with you insulting me in my own house!"

"You deserve to be insulted!" she screamed, finally loosing the tight grip she'd been keeping on her emotions. "You deserve that and more, you motherfucking asshole! You made me _care_, you - God, you did do me what you do to Kyle all the time! You made me think maybe there was something redeemable in you, and then it turned out that it was all - God, _everything, all of it_ - it was all just you manipulating people for your own selfish reasons!"

"Fuck you, bitch!" he shouted back. "You're fucking _crazy!_"

"_Crazy?_" she snarled. "Damn right I'm crazy! Or at least, I have been, these past seven weeks! I was crazy to think you ever gave a shit about anyone but yourself! I was crazy to stand out there in the rain and wait for you like some bad romance movie, while you sat here on your fat ass and played on your Xbox 360 and laughed at me for being stupid enough to fall for your little game!"

"What-"

"Tell me why you did it, Cartman! What the hell did you want from me, what the fuck were you trying to accomplish writing me those letters? And don't you fucking _DARE_ lie to me!

He just stared at her. She actually bore her teeth at him, like a mad dog.

"_Tell me!_ Did you just do it to humiliate me? Did you just do it to get back at me for being a 'hippie'? _Why did you do it, you fucking son of a bitch?_"

"Wendy," he said slowly, "I'm not the one who's been writing those letters."

She froze and stared at him. Then she grit her teeth and clenched her fists tighter. "Is that supposed to be _funny_, you asshole? Why don't you just own up to it? I know how much you love bragging."

His eyebrows came down, in something that... wasn't a glare. "I'm telling you the truth, you psychotic bitch."

"_No_," she snapped, "you _must_ be the one."

Cartman had the oddest look on his face. "Think about it, Wendy. Does that sound like something I would do?"

Wendy stopped and stared at him. Because, she realized... _no_, it _didn't_. Leaving anonymous love letters _wasn't_ the sort of thing Eric Cartman would do. And she'd listened to all her friends and been convinced instead of just stopping and _thinking_ about it.

Cartman was still giving her that odd look. "Did you... did you _want_ me to be the one writing them?"

He never got an answer. Wendy choked, knocking over a chair while she backed up. She clapped both of her hands over her mouth and her eyes were starting to hurt. There was definitely something very wrong with her eyes. She must need glasses, because Cartman suddenly looked very blurry.

And then Wendy turned around and ran all the way home.

--

TBC


	13. Don't Fuck With Wendy Testaburger

So, this chapter answers the 'So who's writing the letters, anyway?' question. I hope you haven't all figured it out already. Also, some nice Kyle and Stan reconciliation. And a couch.

And, uh. There's only one chapter left.

--

--

--

Wendy tried to get her mother to let her stay home the next day.

Having never faked sick before and therefore having no experience in it, she did a blotched job. She told her mother she had a headache, but two minutes and a thermometer disproved that. Rather than trying to dissolve into a coughing fit and complaining about a stomach ache, Wendy broke down and told her mother she just didn't want to go to school. Her mother said she had to, however. She seemed to take a perverse pleasure in finally having a daughter that _didn't_ look forward to school, and was actually behaving like a normal teenager.

So Wendy walked through the school doors like she was heading for the gallows, her head bowed, dreading journalism class.

She didn't want to see Cartman again. She had... _completely, utterly_, and _totally_ humiliated herself. She'd burst into his home and started raving at him like a madman when he hadn't actually _done_ anything. Any respect he could have ever possessed for her had been effectively destroyed. At best, he wanted nothing more to do with her. At worst, he was plotting some sort of elaborate revenge, possibly involving that stupid hack saw he'd gotten for his last birthday, which he'd been bragging about incessantly.

Because - she winced - she'd called him _fat_. And a bunch of other terrible things, too, when it had been completely unprovoked. But, worst of all, he _knew_. He'd asked that last question, before she flew out the door, and now _he knew_. He knew, when she herself had only just realized it last night, curled up in her bed, shivering and soaking wet.

She edged into the classroom and made her way to her desk, looking resolutely at the floor. She was _not_ going to look at Cartman. She didn't care what happened, she wouldn't glance over at him. If she didn't look at him, she wouldn't have to know if he was glaring at her, or ignoring her, or what.

"God, you look awful, Wendy," Cassidy said loudly behind her. Wendy exhaled and squeezed her eyes closed; she wished Cassidy would just _shut the fuck up_. She was the last - well, no, that wasn't true, the last person she wanted to deal with at the moment was Cartman - but she was definitely very low on the list.

"Leave me alone, Cassidy," she managed to hiss out.

"Aw, what's the matter?" Cassidy asked in a sarcastically sweet tone of voice. "You strike out last night?"

Wendy, who'd been in the process of opening her binder, froze. The hard plastic slipped out of her fingers as she gawked at her desk, her lips parting in shock, her eyes widening. And then she twisted around to face Cassidy, who had a smug smirk on her face, her arms folded.

"What?" she rasped out.

Cassidy laughed. She pressed one of her manicured hands to her mouth and giggled at her. "My God, you are such a conceited bitch, Wendy." She pulled her hand away and resumed smirking. "You really think someone would write you secret love letters? Puh-lease."

Wendy's expression hadn't changed. Very slowly this new information was sinking in. She continued staring at Cassidy, and finally mustered a "... Why?"

Cassidy snorted, her smirk twisting into a sneer. "You're stupider than I thought if you have to _ask_. Scott was a brilliant editor; I told you you couldn't fill his shoes; I was right. You get the job and in two weeks you turn the paper into your own soap opera." Her eyes narrowed. "You insulted the shout-out section. MY section! I thought to myself, what better way to get back at little Miss Britannica than _with_ the shout-out section?" The smirk was back. "You are such a fucking hypocrite, Wendy. I'll bet you didn't think the section was 'stupid' when it was _you_ that was getting the letters."

She started to laugh again, but Wendy had stopped listening to her. She'd stopped actually seeing her, as a matter of fact. All she could think about was the look on Cartman's face when he told her he wasn't the one writing those letters.

So she drew back her arm and slugged Cassidy in the face with all the force she could muster.

--

"_MISS_ Testaburger."

The principal glared at her over his interlaced fingers. Wendy didn't say anything.

"Did I, or did I not, tell you that there would be _consequences_ if I saw you in my office again?"

Wendy continued not saying anything. She didn't even look at him.

"My leniency has limits, Miss Testaburger. I may let you slide on ridiculous fibs about a couple of the male students, but hitting a girl? _No._ Definitely _not_."

Wendy really didn't like the way the up-and-down way the principal talked when he was lecturing students, stressing every other word. It was like verbal motion sickness.

Verbal motion sickness. Heh. That sounded like the sort of ridiculous thing Cartman would come up with.

The principal was flipping through the papers on his desk. "What was it I told you, miss Testaburger...? Ah. Two weeks' suspense and a transfer from journalism class to shop class."

She'd wanted to take shop class, back in third grade. At the time, she'd just wanted to take anything but home ec with that stupid female teacher. She and Bebe had mocked her after class, mimicking the way she spoke in that whine and giggling while they waited around for Tweek to fight Craig. They'd had money on it, too. Wendy had thought Craig was the clear winner. Bebe had said you could never underestimate a good adrenaline rush.

Now that she thought of it, she'd been so sure Craig was going to win because _Cartman_ had been so sure Craig was going to win. His confidence had been infectious, and she'd been sure that, for better of for worse, Cartman could do anything.

... God, she was pathetic.

"Ah, your mother's here," the principal said, standing and moving toward the door to greet her. Wendy stayed in her seat, playing with her fingers absently, keeping her head bowed. Her right knuckles hurt.

"Wendy!" her mother said, sounding exasperated and alarmed and indignant. "What _happened?_"

"Well, Miss Testaburger," the principal prompted, completely unsympathetic. "Explain the situation to your mother."

Wendy pulled her gaze from her lap to her mother, who was still wearing her business attire, her hair clipped back into a bun, looking exactly how she sounded. Wendy ran her tongue along her bottom lip, and then she shrugged.

"I hit Cassidy Brooking."

"Not just _hit_," the principal dug in immediately. "Punched! So hard that the poor girl fell backwards into a desk and bit her tongue!"

"_Wendy_," her mother said, trying to sound stern but coming off amazed.

"Of course, Mrs. Testaburger, you understand that this school has a zero tolerance for violence of any kind."

"O-of course," her mother said.

"We will be moving your daughter to a different classroom, to ensure the safety of Miss Brooking. And we will, of course, be suspending her for two weeks."

"Two weeks!" Mrs. Testaburger cried, her hand flying to her mouth. "Isn't - isn't that a bit much?"

"The personal safety of our students is key," the principal said, and Wendy thought a little snidely that he didn't give two shits about Kenny's personal safety. He'd actually called Kenny down to his office to chew him out for making the bleachers collapse, once. "The punishment would have been less severe, perhaps, if it weren't for the previous incident."

"Previous... incident?" Mrs. Testaburger asked, and the principal's eyebrows shot up.

"... Mrs. Testaburger," he said with sappy concern, placing a hand on her arm and patting her once. "I am afraid you may be raising a delinquent. Five weeks ago your daughter ran a vulgar newspaper article about two of her fellow classmates, alleging that these two bright young boys were involved in the most obscene of behavior. I'm sure you understand what I mean," he said, giving her a long look.

Weakly, Mrs. Testaburger nodded. "_Wendy_," she said again, "_why_ would you do such a thing?"

Wendy didn't answer her. She just exhaled and looked up at the ceiling.

"I find the fact that she did not inform her parents very disconcerting, Mrs. Testaburger. I'm afraid I may have been taken in by your daughter's apparently insincere desire to achieve in my school. I - falsely, it appears - assumed she had the merit to not hide things from her parents. Had I not thought she would tell you herself, I would of course have called you."

_... What a douche_, Wendy thought, and glared at him a little. He seemed to consider this proof of her delinquent behavior and gave her mother a pitying look and another little pat.

"Now I am going to have to ask you to escort your daughter from the premises, Mrs. Testaburger. I'm afraid she's trespassing."

As they made their way to the parking lot, her mother tried to wheedle the story out of her. Wendy, however, remained silent. By the time they'd gotten into the car and started the drive home her mother had gotten tired of pleading with her and starting chiding her.

Wendy didn't really listen to her. She could tell her mother was not-so-secretly enjoying herself - she'd always wanted a more conventional daughter, one that got interested into accessorizing and did bad things at school. So while her mother bawled her out, she leaned her forehead against the window and traced designs in it absently, looking up at the cloudy sky. It was finally sinking in that she wasn't going to be the editor anymore. Wendy didn't think about it. Wendy wasn't thinking about a lot of things.

As she walked into the house, her mother calling behind her that she had to get back to work, but just wait until your father gets home, young lady, Wendy didn't think about how she'd wanted to be the editor of the newspaper for six years and only gotten to do it for seven weeks. She didn't think about how anticlimactic her break up with Token was, and how normal people probably were supposed to feel more affected by something like that.

And she most definitely did _not_ think about how she felt, how Cartman _knew_ how she felt, how he _must_ know how she felt, and how he most definitely did not feel the same way. In fact, she wasn't thinking about it so much that she decided to flop down onto her couch and turn on the TV.

The commercial that flickered onto the screen was one for Nabisco's latest product: quadruple-stuff Oreos.

With a frustrated, distressed cry, Wendy flung the remote at the TV. It bounced off the side, the back of the case popping off and the batteries flying in two different directions. Wendy had no way of turning off the commercial's catchy jingle without crawling across the floor and doing it manually and, frankly, she just didn't have the energy for that.

She groaned and buried her head in a couch pillow instead. Wendy was feeling absolutely wretched. She'd been kicked off the school paper, her boyfriend had broken up with her, and, worst of all, she was in love with Eric Cartman.

Her life, quite simply, sucked.

--

Kyle hadn't been in school Monday, so Stan hadn't been able to hunt him down and grovel.

When he wasn't in school on Tuesday either, however, Stan decided he had no choice but to go to his house. He supposed it was better that way, really - if Kyle had a conniption, then at least the entire school wouldn't witness it. It didn't mean he was looking forward too it, though.

He thought over what he was going to say very carefully over lunch, while everyone else was buzzing about how Wendy had sucker punched some chick and got suspended for it, and found that he really couldn't figure out what he wanted to say. His brain only got as far as "I'm sorry I'm an idiot but you just seem to bring it out in me" before shutting off.

So when he arrived on the Broflovski doorstep, he had no plan of action. Stan hesitated, staring at the door knob, and then removed his hand from his pocket and knocked.

"Door's open!" he heard Kyle holler. He must be in the front room, then. Probably watching TV. Stan turned the knob carefully and shuffled in.

As predicted, the TV was blaring. Kyle was watching the History channel, because Kyle was a geek even if he kept it to himself. Apparently Queen Liliuokalani had gotten screwed by the United States. So what else was new.

Kyle looked up and scowled at him, then resumed watching. Stan sighed and kicked his shoes off in front of the door, crossed the carpet, and eased himself into a seat next to Kyle.

"So, um, what're you watching?"

Kyle threw the TV guide at his head.

"All right," Stan said, plucking the magazine from his face, "I can deduce you're still angry."

Kyle snorted and didn't look at him. Stan licked his lips.

"Why're you staying home?"

"Because I stole my dad's keys and came home drunk. My parents think I like school. They think making me stay home is a _punishment_." He grinned. "I'm not about to correct them." Almost as soon as he started grinning he stopped; Kyle seemed to remember this was Stan, and he was Really Pissed Off At Stan, so he resumed scowling at the TV.

Stan rubbed his arm and then dug into his pocket, removing Mr. Broflovski's keys with a metallic jingle. "Um - here," he said, and laid them down on the couch cushion between the two of them. Kyle glanced down at them, and then he scooped them up and chucked them on the coffee table between them and the TV.

"Right," he bit out shortly, keeping his eyes on the TV screen. "Thanks."

Stan massaged his knee and finally scowled at him. "Damn it, Kyle, I came over to talk to you. Would you quit ignoring me?"

Kyle swung around immediately and glared at him, and Stan leaned back in his seat a little. "God damn, Stan, you've got plenty to explain. What the fuck is your problem?"

"You're my problem!" Stan snapped. "God, you make me do the stupidest shit and-"

His temper flared up. "If you're trying to blame _me_ for what you did at the party-"

"Well everything you _said-_"

"I was drunk, dumbfuck!"

"You put the idea in my head!"

"You were the one taking advantage of a drunk friend!"

"All I did was kiss you!"

"Right. And aside from some drunken come-ons, _I_ did _nothing_. Don't try and blame this on me!"

Stan groaned and placed a hand against his forehead. "We're fighting again."

"Brilliant deduction," Kyle said snidely, glaring at the TV.

"Kyle, damn it, _come on_," Stan said, sinking into the cushion next to him. "I don't want to keep doing this. I don't want to _avoid_ you, I don't want to feel _weird_ around you, and I _really_ don't want to keep fighting with you all the time."

"... Yeah, me neither," Kyle said heavily, letting out a breath and calming down. "But... I mean, man, do you really think it would be _that_ terrible?" he asked a little mournfully, turning away from the TV and looking at him.

Stan scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably and looked away, then down at his shoes. "... No..." he finally admitted out loud. Because, really: he didn't think it would be that horrible. He'd always enjoyed his best friend's company more than any girlfriend he'd ever had. But there was a serious gap between wanting to be around him more than girls and wanting to _kiss_ him, or screw around with him, or... whatever.

Kyle had an almost hopeful look on his face. "So then...?"

"Kyle, I'm _not-_" Stan started to say, but Kyle just made an exasperated noise and looked away.

He was silent for a while, and the only sound came from the TV as if babbled on about imperialism. Then he cleared his throat and licked his lips and said, in what he considered a conversational tone, "So... Kenny thinks it's unresolved sexual tension...?"

He glanced over at Kyle and then Kyle all but _tackled_ him. The back of his skull hit the armrest and Kyle's hands curled around either side of his ribcage, pushing him down into the couch, and so because Stan really couldn't _go_ anywhere he leaned into Kyle when he kissed him.

Something Stan hadn't really been able to appreciate at that party was the fact that Kyle was a _good_ kisser. Particularly when he was sober and kissing him _back_. Stan grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him down roughly, making an appreciative thrumming noise when Kyle sucked on his bottom lip.

A great kisser, actually. Except Kyle's glasses were digging into his face. Stan pulled back enough to rip them off, and Kyle made an irritable noise and yanked back. "_Jesus_, don't jab my eye out," he grumbled, taking the glasses from him and folding them up, throwing them hazardously onto the same coffee table than had the TV guide had made a home on. Kyle didn't have to worry about them getting broken or scratched - they _were_ possessed, after all. The glasses safely disposed of, Kyle leaned in again, sliding his hands up Stan's sides until they were tucked up under his armpits and couldn't do any further.

Stan was vaguely aware of offering up his first born to some ancient tribal god of the harvest, and muttering a few other things that made even less sense. Stan's other hand went up to join the one he had around Kyle's neck and he attempted to hold his face still, but Kyle squirmed out of his grip and evaded him. Stan's head was hanging over the couch's armrest, which was putting a crick in his neck, but that was okay because Kyle was taking advantage of his exposed neck and leaving biting kisses down the length of it. He sucked on his jugular and Stan _hissed,_ and Kyle said something that was either 'fuck' or 'God.' Or maybe even 'fuck God.'

He pulled himself back up and kissed him on the mouth again. At first he tried to prop himself up on his elbows, his hands slipping down into the couch and curling up Stan's shoulders, but Kyle eventually grew tried of supporting his weight and just fell on Stan. It knocked whatever breath he still had out of him, which was _more_ than fine by Stan. Breathing, he found, just wasn't as nice as getting enthusiastically kissed by a wiry Jewish boy.

It was definitely better when Kyle wasn't drunk. Except he was wearing a shirt. Stan tugged at the hem and dragged it up Kyle's stomach and chest until it bunched up around his armpits, but he couldn't yank it over his head because Kyle's hands had gotten shuffled again, and were now clutching his hips. Stan found he was at a quandary, because Kyle couldn't take off his shirt without moving his hands, and while Stan wanted Kyle to be shirtless, he also very much wanted him to never move his hands, ever.

Suddenly Stan didn't really give a damn about either, because Kyle had worked his way past Stan's braces - which had deterred many a girl for fear of having their lips cut - and rolled his tongue.

Stan made a muffled gasping noise, and Kyle pulled back and frowned a little. "What?"

"Where did you learn how to do that?" Stan demanded. Kyle blinked and shrugged.

"Spanish class."

"All hail Spain and its clearly superior language," Stan breathed, marveling, and Kyle laughed and bent back over him; Stan parted his lips immediately and, really, he ought to send Spain a fruit basket or something, because that fine country had taught Kyle how to roll his r's like that. Stan decided Red was the stupidest girl in the world. And he thanked _God_ she was. He kissed Kyle back hungrily, his hands skimming up his back and feeling Kyle's shoulder blades shift underneath his fingers. He wanted to yank Kyle down closer, but Kyle was already crushed up against him, so he tried shifting his legs around.

And then Kyle's knee came down on the TV remote, and the soothing tones of Queen Liliuokalani getting screwed out of her throne was abruptly replaced with the Brady Brunch theme song.

Kyle made an irritated noise into Stan's mouth and pulled away, turning his head to scowl at the TV. "Christ," he grumbled, "leave it to a crappy 70's TV show to kill the mood."

"Huhn," Stan said, who didn't really care about the mood so long as Kyle's hands were on his hips. But Kyle glanced down at him, climbed off, and sat back down on his side of the couch, pulling back down his shirt and smiling a little sheepishly at him as he went. Stan swallowed and sat up as well, wondering vaguely how much of that he could get away with without his inhaler.

All of the awkward annoyance Stan had felt toward Kyle since last summer had been replaced with a happy, fuzzy sort of satisfaction, and when Kyle smiled he grinned back.

"So, not terrible?"

Stan licked his lips. "_Really_ not terrible."

Watching Marcia get beamed in the face with a football had never felt so good.

--

TBC


	14. Schadenfreude

That's it; it's over.

Sorry about making y'all wait two weeks. End-of-school projects, end-of-fic blues, you know how it goes. This chapter gave me such hell, but I'm really very pleased with it. I think it's a logical, Cartman sort of conclusion. A thank you to all you readers/reviewers - I seriously didn't think a Cartman/Wendy fic would get much notice in such a slash-heavy fandom. And I must say I'm incredibly pleased that there's more fic for these two popping up. My OTP, and all.

I've got several other Cartman/Wendy and Stan/Kyle fics on the horizon, and even some other pairings. Pip/Damien, anyone? Or how about some good ol' Ned/Jimbo? And more het, of course. XD

--

--

--

Wendy walked toward the room shop class was taught in, dragging her feet. As glad as she was to finally be back in school, the fact that she wasn't returning to journalism was truly depressing.

When she entered the room, everyone gawked at her. Bebe had told her that, in her absence, the story of how she hit Cassidy had evolved into an elaborate tale where she flew across the room at her in a rage and started beating the ever-loving shit out of her. She avoided their stares and edged toward the teacher.

"Um... I've been transferred from-"

"Yes, of course, Miss Testaburger. I've already been informed," he said, and Wendy winced. She could tell just by his tone that she had been the topic of many a teacher's lounge discussion. And she'd worked so _hard_ to be a teacher's pet, too. She'd been shooting for valedictorian but that, like all of her work for the school newspaper, had gone straight to hell the moment she'd slugged Cassidy.

Everything she'd ever worked for had been yanked away from her, and for what? An unrequited crush on the world's most terrible person.

"Take a seat," the teacher told her, and Wendy glanced around the room. The shop room had many stools around a few large tables instead of desks like the rest of the classrooms. When she looked around everyone immediately rested their feet on any empty stool near them, or put their bag down, or shoved the free stool toward a different table. Obviously, no one was keen on sitting next to Wendy The Maniac.

"Oo, Wendy! Over here!" She blinked at Kenny, who was sitting at a table by himself next to the buzz saw, waving brightly at her. She blinked again, then smiled a little at him, glad he'd saved her from standing there at the front of the room looking like an idiot, and joined him at the table.

During her suspension her parents had initially tried to come up with a way to punish her, but they'd quickly realized that, to their overachieving daughter, suspension was the ultimate punishment already. Wendy had allowed herself to wallow on her couch for an hour after the Oreo ad, and then she'd began pulling herself back together. So, she decided, Cartman didn't like her. Well... she couldn't do anything about that. But she _could_ do something about being suspended. Lying about on the furniture like a depressed slug lamenting her problems wasn't going to help her in the slightest and, what's more, it wasn't like her. She needed to get out of this Cartman-induced funk.

So she'd called up Bebe and told her to come over directly after school. Bebe had, bouncing on her toes and demanding information about the Cassidy Incident. Wendy had finally told her just to get her to shut up, which meant she also had to explain what had happened at the baseball diamond, and consequently had to confess to Bebe that, yes, she really did like Cartman.

She'd expected Bebe to gush in that bubbly way she did, but Bebe'd just ran a hand over the back of her head sympathetically and asked her what she'd wanted her to come over for. Wendy really did constantly undervalue what a good best friend Bebe was.

When she'd outlined her plan, Bebe had sighed and shaken her head. "I swear I don't understand you, girl. You get two weeks off school, and what's the first thing on your mind? Homework."

"Just do it," Wendy had commanded, holding the tape recorder out to her. It was rather lucky that, save journalism, they had all the same classes.

So for the next two weeks Bebe'd had a tape recorder on her desk, recording every class period, then dropping them off with Wendy after school. Wendy had been immensely pleased with her idea, and was able to stay completely on top of her classes because of it. Unfortunately, Bebe had taken advantage of the opportunity to gossip into the recorder while the teacher lectured, so that Wendy had no way of skipping over it without missing what the teacher was saying.

Mostly, Bebe had talked about Kenny. Apparently, without Wendy around, she'd resorted to hanging out with him instead of her fellow cheerleaders. She'd explained that she really did enjoy his company, even though he wasn't even trying to conceal the fact he was hoping to get inside her pants. "I think that sort of honesty is refreshing from a guy, don't you?" she'd chirped.

"So why don't you just sleep with him?" Wendy had asked one afternoon, annoyed after having had to listen to Bebe talk about her sex life while the teacher explained z scores in the background.

Bebe had shrugged. "I dunno. It would feel sort of like necrophilia. Know what I mean?"

Wendy smiled at Kenny, now, as she pulled up a stool. "How are you?"

"Well, I'm alive, so I've been worse," he said, giving her a lopsided smile.

"I didn't know you were taking shop."

"I like tempting fate."

"Why're you at a table all by yourself?"

"Ah, took a little dive in popularity after that hose-down at Butters'. So, how was your vacation?" he asked, starting up the saw as the teacher told the class to get to work. Wendy frowned.

"Aren't you going to wearing safety goggles?"

"Look, if God wants me to loose an eye, some regulation plastic isn't going to stop Him," he said, slicing boards. Wendy tugged her own on quickly and frowned at him, and he smirked back. "So? Two-week suspension?" he prompted.

"It sucked ass," she informed him, then hesitated. "... I didn't want to come back."

"Bummed out about Cartman?"

"He _told_ you?" she cried, outraged and mortified.

"Not really, but what he did with the newspaper last week shed a lot of light on the situation." Wendy frowned. She was about to ask him what Cartman had done, but he went on before she could say anything. "So you like the guy, huh?"

Wendy sighed and leaned against her fist. "I don't know what's wrong with me. He wasn't even... All the nice things in those notes. It was all _fake_."

"Well... yeah," Kenny said. "And you got screwed big-time by that Cassidy chick, and I sympathize. But, you know, just because Cartman wasn't writing those letters doesn't nullify all the nice things he _did_ do for you - drive you home from the party, stick around after school to help you with the paper..."

She frowned at him. "How is it any of your business, anyway?"

Kenny pushed a hand through his shaggy hair. "Well, he's my sorta-kinda-not-really best friend."

"Sorta-kinda-not-really," Wendy repeated flatly.

"Yeah," Kenny said. "I mean. I feel sorry for the guy. And no one else in town really does - not that I blame them. It's just, you know, Cartman has a manifold of Issues. Capitalized, even. I don't want him to get anymore unhinged than he already is."

Wendy's expression hovered between a frown and a scowl. "So... what? You think I'm going to screw him up or I'm not right for him or something because I don't have any pity for him?"

"Oh, God no," Kenny said, waving his hands in front of himself, his fingers spread. "_Hell_ no. Any relationship that starts out with one of them pitying the other is fucked from the beginning. I just mean, you know... when it comes to Cartman, tread softly but firmly."

"Hmm," Wendy said, and smiled a little. "You know, you're a pretty good guy, Kenny. I can see why Bebe considers you a friend instead of just another hunk of guy flesh to screw."

"You think I'd get more pussy if I started acting like an asshole?" Kenny asked thoughtfully, rubbing his chin in consideration. Wendy sighed and shook her head at him. A pretty good guy, yes - but still very much a _guy_.

"Miss Testaburger," the teacher said, and she jumped to attention. She'd have to work doubly hard to win the teachers back over. Wendy gave him a winning smile, and his beard twitched in response.

"As you are the only one not current involved in a project, would you deliver the attendance to the office?" he said, holding it out to her. She took it with a cheerful "Of course!" and left the classroom with a speedy, professional pace. Once the door closed behind her she slackened her speed to a leisurely walk through the empty hallways, flipping through the roster absently. Her name had been penciled in at the bottom, underneath _Vanderloo, Mark_. She sighed, letting her eyes glaze over. Shop class was going to be so... boring. All of her clothes were probably going to get bloodstains on them, too, as long as she sat next to Kenny.

Her eyes skimmed over the roster lazily, and then she froze when they got up to _Cartman, Eric Theodore_.

Cart... man...? _He_ was on the roster? Then, he was in the class?

But... that didn't make any sense. He hadn't been in the room. He was in _journalism._

She was so absorbed in puzzling over it that she was thoroughly startled when she turned a corner and stumbled across two other people.

--

They were many advantages to dating your best friend that Kyle, while wangsting and getting advice from a big, gay man, had not really considered. For instance, they could settle any disagreement with a good old-fashioned fist fight. And if that didn't work, they could always dry-hump on his living room couch.

Kyle was really starting to love that couch.

The first thing they'd done after turning off _The Brady Brunch_ was head down to J-mart so that Stan could quit. He'd made a quite dramatic exit. Things had broken. People had cried. Mothers had ushered their children to safety.

"It feels so good to be a consumer again," Stan had said on the hike back to his house, so that they could grab Sparky as an excuse to go to the very secluded bike trail for a 'walk.' "But I'm going to miss the paychecks."

"Yeah, but what were you going to buy with them? Auditing?"

Stan's shoved him, and Kyle'd grabbed his arm and pulled him flush against him, grinning when Stan balked.

Over the past two weeks, Kyle had discovered several new things about his best friend: a) Stan was a biter, b) Stan was a hair-puller, c) Stan had some sort of fetish for abdomens. For someone who'd been bleating their straightness to the sky for weeks, he'd certainly gotten into the whole gay make-out thing very, very quickly. And though he was far from ready to don a pink triangle and march in some pride parade, he seemed to find the threat on being caught a tremendous turn-on.

Which would explain why Stan'd caught him on his way back from the bathroom and backed him up against some poor unfortunate's locker in the deserted hallway, and was currently gripping a fistful of his hair so hard that his scalp tingled with one hand while his other hand had slipped up under his jacket. And that's why he was biting his collar bone, and sliding his tongue into the hollow of his throat, andohholygodYES.

And that's about the time that a very girlie voice screamed.

Stan jumped away and Kyle's mind tried valiantly to come out of its Stan-haze. He finally focused on Wendy, who was staring at them with her mouth hanging open, the papers she'd been carrying at her feet.

"Oh, God," said Stan. "God no."

"Oh. It's just Wendy," Kyle said at about the same time.

"JUST Wendy!" Stan yelped, glaring at him. "Are you _insane?_ Now Cartman's going to find out!"

"Dude, I'm pretty sure Cartman already knows."

"WHAT!"

"Who says I'm going to tell Cartman?" Wendy demanded, her annoyance momentarily overcoming her mortification. And then it was back. "I didn't see anything!" she said hastily, bending over, grabbing the roster, and scurrying away.

_God, I hate it when Cartman's right_, she thought as she hurried away, biting her lip. Because the sight she'd just seen had been nearly identical to that photo he'd doctored months ago.

Stan and Kyle watched her as she all but ran away, and then Stan turned around and said, "This is all your fault."

"How do you figure _that?_"

"It's all because of how your ass looks in those jeans," Stan said irritably.

"You're blaming this on my pants?"

"I'm going back to class," Stan grumbled, starting off, and Kyle sped after him.

"I've been gone for like twenty minutes," Kyle mused. "The class is either going to think I have to worst diarrhea ever, or I fell in."

"No one's going to care about that. They're all just going to want to know if the Raisins chicks really _do_ cut PE and have lesbian orgies."

"... In the _guys'_ bathroom?"

Stan shrugged. "Since when have lesbian fantasies been realistic?"

--

This was not Wendy's day.

Because when she'd finally gotten to the attendance office there was Cartman, standing by his mother as she excused his tardiness. He'd been glaring at the clock, but his eyes jumped to her when she entered the room; she froze and stared back - two weeks she had successfully avoided him after making a complete love-struck dumbass out of herself in front of him. She should have known it was too good to last.

She dumped the shop class roster on the desk just as Mrs. Cartman finished writing her signature and picked up her purse to go. Wendy spun on her heel and headed full-speed toward the girls' bathroom, wondering if she would even be safe in there. Cartman seemed like the kind of guy who would walk into the girls' bathroom without shame.

"Ey! Wait up, ho!" she heard him call down the hallway. Wendy sped up. Cartman did as well, breaking into an all-out run until he got in front of her, where he turned around to face her and came to an abrupt stop. She tried to go around him, but he shot his arm out, blocking her path. Wendy realized she was trapped. Blocking people was one of Cartman's specialties, after all.

"There you are, bitch," he wheezed out, then grabbed his knees and leaned forward as he gasped for air.

Wendy sucked in a breath and hugged herself as a sort of barrier between the two of them. She narrowed her eyes and demanded, "What are you doing coming in late?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"_I_ wasn't late, I was delivering the roster to the attendance office," she said, lifting her chin a little. "Shouldn't you be in _journalism_ right now?"

"No," Cartman said matter-of-factly. "And if you've got the shop class roster you should already know that, ho."

Wendy's eyes narrowed a little bit more and she tried to edge around him. Cartman blocked her escape route.

"Hold on," he said, and didn't tack on an insult for once. Wendy frowned at him.

"_Why_ are you in shop class?"

"Heh," he said, smirking. "I knew you'd snoop through the attendance list." She glared and he said, "They transferred me back to shop class."

_That's right,_ she remembered. He'd transferred into journalism from shop, that first horrible day of school. "But _why?_"

Cartman's smirk faded, and he scowled and crossed his arms. He seemed to be deliberating his next words very carefully.

"Look, I know I say I hate everyone, but I don't actually," he finally said.

"Uh-huh," Wendy said, crossing her arms as well.

"Serioushlay," Cartman said. "Well. Except hippies. And Jews. And gingers... dog trainers..."

Wendy sighed and turned away.

"Will you let me finish?" Cartman snapped, yanking her back around by her shoulder. "My point is, I just like seeing people suffer. It doesn't mean I _hate_ them. I don't _hate_ Stan and Kenny, I'd just rather see them miserable than happy."

"What about Kyle?"

Cartman's expression darkened. "Kyle's a Jew."

"Right," she said, running a hand through her hair. "And I'm a hippie, so I'm on your exclusive hate-list too, right? That's what you're trying to say, isn't it?"

"You're... not a hippie," Cartman mumbled. "You're an environmentalist." Wendy lifted an eyebrow and he scowled. "Would you quite interrupting me? I'm trying to explain myself here."

Wendy sighed. "All right."

"Other people's misery makes me happy," he said. "Except... yours." He scowled and kicked a trash can violently. "And it's really starting to piss me off!" Wendy gave him a surprised look, and Cartman made a frustrated noise.

"So I thought... while you were gone..." Cartman grit his teeth. Words, his most useful resource when it came to getting his way, were failing him. Fed up, he dug into his backpack, unbent a newspaper, and passed it to her.

Wendy drew the newspaper toward herself, staring down at the headline: "Senior Involved in Fetish Pornography." Below the bold letters was a full-page photo of Cassidy Brooking in a most indecent situation with a zebra. She blinked several times, completely thrown; this was about the last thing she'd expected to see today.

"You... doctored this picture?"

Cartman shook his head. "It's _real._"

She stared at him. "Bullshit."

"I am so for seriously! You know... I got blackmail on everyone in journalism to stop your bitching about how no one ever showed up."

"I guessed as much," Wendy said.

"Well when I was digging through that whore Cassidy's past, I uncovered something very interesting she had done to try and win Scott Tenorman over. She did _this_," he said, tapping the photo, "because she heard he was into bestiality." An evil smirk was beginning to inch onto his face. "Because she heard this _crazy_ rumor that he got a blow job from a pony..."

"How in the _world_ did you get this printed?"

Cartman snorted. "God, it was _so easy_. I can see why you like Ms. Dieterle so much; that hippie bitch is such a fucking pushover. After they kicked you out it took me four minutes to get her to make me the editor."

"So... you published this, and they kicked you out of paper and put you back in shop class," she summarized, processing the situation slowly. Cartman, however, snorted.

"I know how to cover my tracks, bitch, what do you take me for? I blamed it on that ratty looking kid."

"... Travis?" Wendy asked.

"Whatever."

"What did he ever do to you!"

"Ey, don't get all defensive, ho! If you knew what I'd been blackmailing him with, you'd think he deserved it."

She frowned a little at him. "Well, if you didn't get kicked out of journalism, why are you in shop class now?"

He rolled his eyes. "You think I want to stay in that fucking lame newspaper?"

"The newspaper is not 'fucking lame'-!"

"I don't have a _reason_ to stay in it anymore," he said, steamrolling over her instinctive defense of the newspaper. She stared at him, bit her lip, and looked back down at the paper in her hands.

"Cartman, this was..." she looked down at the picture, traced it with her finger, and then shook her head.

"... a _horrible_ thing to do."

Cartman's expression twisted. "Well, fine, you ungrateful bitch!" he burst out quickly, turning his back on her and crossing his arms. "I just won't bother then!"

Wendy sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder, and noticed how stiff he was. "Now _you're_ the one who's not letting me finish," she said briskly. When he didn't turn around she maneuvered herself in front of him. He glared at her and she sighed, removed her hand from his shoulder, and steepled her fingers around her nose, pushing her face into her hands.

"It's _horrible_. It's... down right nasty. And, Lord, all I can think is 'This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me'." Cartman's eyebrows rose and she bit her lip. "I'm... such a terrible person, to find this _flattering_. But, Cartman, I think that I might actually like..."

She trailed off, and then she frowned at his ankles, shook her head, and removed her hands from her mouth so that she could do this properly. "I actually love you."

The expression on his face was almost comical. It was the same one he'd had when she'd apologized to him after acting surprised that he'd done his report, and when she'd told him his band had deserved to go platinum. He looked genuinely happy and horribly confused, as if he were completely out of his element and had no idea how to react when people were kind to him.

So, as he did what he'd done before: snap at her.

"I'm not saying it back!"

Wendy almost laughed out loud. "You just destroyed a girl's reputation for me," she said instead. "I don't think you could say it any clearer, Cartman."

He was going to kiss her. Boys, Wendy had come to find, always had some sort of tell when they were about to kiss a girl (Stan's had been the bright green color he turned). She tipped her head up to meet him and... he kissed her chin.

They stayed like that for approximately five seconds, frozen in place by the horribly awkward, unintentional chin-kiss, and then Cartman made a frustrated, rage-filled noise and backed off.

"God damn it," he swore. "I am going to do this fucking _right_. So stop twitching," Cartman commanded. He cupped her face, presumably to stop the involuntary muscle spasms she was apparently subject to, and kissed her again, this time on the lips. Wendy couldn't honestly say it was a mind-blowing kiss, because Cartman was far from experienced, but he more than made up for it with enthusiasm. But just as it was getting really _good_ (because God hated her), someone shouted very loudly, "OH MY GOD!"

Cartman and Wendy jumped apart quickly and turned to find that Kyle and Stan were staring at them. Stan was of a definite greenish tinge, and Kyle, who'd been the one who'd shouted, had his hands over his eyes and was saying, "Get me a power drill, Stan, quick! Must! Make! The mental images! Stop!"

"You... you _GOD DAMN FAGS!_" Cartman snarled, and flipped them off. "Oh _GOD_ I am going to get you butt pirates for this!"

"Go ahead," Kyle said, finally dropping his hands and latching onto Stan by the elbow. "The last time you 'got us' it worked out fantastically in our favor, so by all means, do your worst," he went on, as he dragged Stan off. Stan and Kyle's voices faded down the hall ("DUDE!"; "What, Stan, I told you he already knew.") and they were left alone again. Wendy glanced at Cartman, who was fuming.

"Those... _fags_," he snapped, apparently feeling uncreative with insults at the moment. "If I'd known it was _true_ I'd never have written that article; I'd have written one that said they were raping baby animals, or something."

Wendy made a face at him. "Ugh, Cartman."

"Bet you I could make a case for it in ten minutes. Remember when Stan ran off and joined PETA-"

"He didn't run away, he was banished," Wendy pointed out.

"Not in my article he won't be. And then Kyle got all overemotional about that stupid whale, most likely because he had to be parted with his love..."

"Why'd you come in late?" she asked, hoping to throw him off this rather disturbing topic of conversation.

"I was busy this morning setting Cassidy's house on fire."

Wendy blinked. "... You burned down Cassidy's house, too?"

"Yes."

"Don't you think that's a little excessive?"

"Do _you?_"

"No," Wendy said. "Bitch had it coming," she continued, and Cartman smirked at her. She smirked back, and then she reached out and grabbed his hand. "Let's get back to shop class. We can see if Kenny's still alive."

"That asshole better be, he's supposed to be making my birdhouse for me," Cartman said, though his voice lacked his usual rancor. He was distracted by Wendy's hand, which was clutching his own, and he had _that look_ on his face again. Wendy was coming to find she liked that look on him.

And she _really_ liked the fact that she was the one who put it there.

---

The End


End file.
